


Ticket to Paris

by letitmclennon



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Flashbacks, M/M, Paris Honeymoon, Romance, Slash, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-03-02 17:31:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 63,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13323042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letitmclennon/pseuds/letitmclennon
Summary: Liverpool 1961.When John Lennon receives a gift of one hundred pounds, he doesn't think twice before asking his friend Paul McCartney to join him in an adventurous trip, a trip that will change their lives, their friendship and will prepare both of them to be Beatles.





	1. Come go with me

**Author's Note:**

> Here we are with a long fic, a real long fic. This is a story I wrote in 2013, after my mum passed away. So, it helped me a lot to find an escape from the pain I was suffering. I translated most of the 16 chapters from Italian to English. Of course we talk about John, Paul and the Paris honeymoon. I love their trip to Paris, it’s so special.  
> Hope you enjoy it.

A hundred quid.

Hundred fucking quid right there, in his hand, John Lennon’s trembling hands. And it was all his- as a present for his twenty-first birthday. Something like five quid for each year of his miserable life. Was he really worth that much? A relative in Edinburgh, someone John visited maybe once a year had given him all this money. Maybe he should have thanked them, with a telegram, for example: “ _Thank you for the nest egg, stop- I promise I’ll spend it very wisely, stop- I remind you that next year I’ll be twenty-two, stop- Let’s not lose sight of each other, stop.”_

When John had come home for lunch, Mimi had given him the money order and he opened it, uninterested, totally unaware of the little treasure hidden in that little envelope. He had to reread the paper, count the zeros after the number one. Those made the difference. Who ever knew that a banal number like zero could become so incredibly important next to another number? It was a sort of message of hope: all the zeros in the world, all the losers like John, had a chance to become someone. They just needed to find the perfect partner, the one that made them special.

Maybe it had been this thought that made John twitch and run to the door, before Mimi could ask him: “What do you want to do with all that money, John?” or “You should save it for the future, John.”

But John knew already how to spend it. Money meant freedom. Most of all, being free to do whatever or to go wherever one wanted. There wasn’t anything that a guy of his age, trapped in a damp and smelly town as Liverpool, longed for more.

Fortunately John knew a guy just like him, with his own dreams and his own urgency to leave town. And maybe he really was the perfect partner, the one that made him special and important like the zero on the money order. So it was right that John would share this magical, amazing present with that person.

John rushed out of the house, running breathlessly, like a fool, through the golf course, with that little piece of happiness clutched tightly in his hand, the wind that was making a mess of his hair and brushing his cheeks. He didn’t care that he was raising whole clumps of grass with his shoes, consequentially ruining the perfectly neat ground. He laughed.

_Fuck the golf course and fuck those snobby golfers!_

So distract and dazed he was that he stumbled on the pavement, falling down and scratching a cheekbone against the hard asphalt. John swore out loud and in his mind.  Bloody, fucking myopic eyes!

But the adrenalin rushing in his body was stronger than the pain and as soon as it arrived, it disappeared. John got to his feet with a slightly awkward jump, adjusting his leather jacket, and started to run again. He knew where he was going, he knew that his legs were carrying him right there; still, he was surprised to find his heart beat faster when he entered the little yard of Forthlin road. It beat in unison with John’s hand, knocking at the door impatiently, and it jumped with John’s body when he heard a familiar voice from within the house. 

_“Coming!”_

John’s breath, already panting, became even more heavier when he listened to the creaking of the floor under not exactly graceful steps of the young man, who opened the door: Paul McCartney was in front of him, with his worn out jeans, the too-big shirt and a sandwich in his hand, that looked as though it had already attacked hungrily.

“John! What a surprise.” Paul greeted him, smiling and staring in amusement while his friend, bent over, was trying to catch his breath.

Damn his nearly twenty-one years! He was too old for these physical efforts. Who made him run like that? Oh yeah, he made himself do it!

“What happened to your face?” Paul asked worried, noticing the scratches on John’s cheekbone.

“Um…” John mumbled, while his breath slowed, “I… I just had a duel. A duel to death with a pretentious pavement that didn’t want to let me pass. No need to tell you I won.”

John winked. He was wearing his “very clever” expression and Paul snorted, annoyed.

“Yeah, sure, and maybe if you wore those bloody glasses sometimes, you could avoid banging that stupid face of yours up.”

“Glasses, Paul, are not rock ‘n roll.”John said, shaking his head with that wise attitude that didn’t really suit him.

Paul looked up to the sky, sighed in a resigned way. John could be very stubborn about certain things. No, wait, what was he thinking? John was always a fucking idiot who did things his way. He could hit his head hundred times, but he never got the message.

“If you say so. Do you want to, I don’t know, disinfect yourself?” Paul asked with a sign to enter in the house, “I was about to have lunch with dad, but I think he can wait a few minutes.”

John shook his head vigorously.

“No, thank you. It’s nothing. Who do you think I am, a fucking girl?” He said indignantly.

“It’s just that, you know, it may get infected and… oh, whatever. As you wish.” He burst finally.

Fuck John and all the times he made Paul worry about him! Why bother worry - if John didn’t listen to him?

“However, if you really want to do something to help me, you can just offer me that marvel in your hands.”

Paul looked his sandwich and pulled back his hand, as far as possible from John: “Get off, it’s mine; I prepared it for myself with great difficulty.”

“With difficulty? You call it difficult to take two slices of bread, slap some butter, salad and cheese between them?”

“It’s still better than Mr. ‘Stay for dinner, nobody burns the eggs with bacon like I do’!”

John frowned: “Hey, it only happened once.”

“One time I’ll remember for the rest of my life, thank you very much.”

“Come on, Paul, give me that bloody sandwich.” John begged him, “In return I’ll give you something that is worth thousands of your precious and laborious delicious dishes.”

Paul stared hesitantly the naughty expression of his friend: it didn’t promise anything good. However his curiosity was too much: why had John run to him, disfiguring half face? And what was that piece of paper held in his hand? What did he want from Paul? With a great sigh, finally, Paul offered him his sandwich and John grabbed it with a quick movement of his arm, devouring it in a single bite, under Paul’s desolate stare.

John addressed him a satisfied sneer and he did a vague gesture with his hand: “Don’t look at me like that; I’ll be out of debt before your stomach can protest.”

Paul crossed his arms on his chest and leaned against the doorframe.

“I’m all ears.”

“See this?” John asked, starting to wave the money order under his nose, while Paul was looked at him uneasily.

 “What’s that?”

“ _That_ , mate, is a ticket to leave this fucking town.”

The expression on Paul’s face grew perplexed. He had always considered himself to be one of the few people able to relate to John Lennon and most of all understand him. But there were moments, like this, in which John would arrive and overwhelm him with his impetuosity, leaving him gobsmacked. And Paul never knew what to do or say.

John smiled to himself and grabbed his shoulders: “Paul, _let’s go_!”

Paul blinked and he must have a very dumb expression on his face because all he could say was: “Huh?”

“Seriously, mate, I thought you were smarter.”

“Being smart requires eating, and here’s someone who’s not only stopping me from doing so, but he’s also stealing my food.”

John laughed. He was so euphoric that he didn’t care really much about Paul’s mood or about the words that were coming out from his pretty mouth.

“Come on; let’s go away from old Liddypool.”

“What are you fucking talking about?”

“I’m not fucking talking, son. I’m telling you, come go with me.”

“Go where exactly?”

“I don’t know, France or Spain…Yeah! Let’s go to Spain. Lots of curvy birds. Uh, guaranteed entertainment. What do you think?” he asked, looking at him in a manner that was both impatient and hopeful.

Paul smiled slightly, before bending his head and blushing a little, “Your offer is really tempting, John, but I can’t, I mean…You know I don’t have much money.”

“Hey, I didn’t say ‘Let’s ask good old Jim for some money and go away on holiday.’ I just said ‘Let’s go’; you don’t have to worry about anything at all. Someone else already did.” He explained, winking at him and waving the money order. “A hundred gorgeous quid just for the two of us. It’s an early birthday present, darling.”

Paul looked at him really upset for a moment with half-open mouth, and his heart lost a bit: “You’re telling me that you want me to come with you and I don’t have to pay for anything?”

“Exactly.” John answered, laughing.

“Anything?”

“Anything at all.”

It was amazing how John couldn’t stop smiling, laughing, feeling euphoric and thrilled about something that hadn’t even happened yet.

“But, John! It’s your money, you should use it on yourself, or save it for the future or-“

“Oh, shut up, you’re starting to sound like Mimi. Just stop fucking ruining my fucking plans! I’d really appreciate it. It’s my money and I’ll use it for whatever I want. And Paul, I’d really like to go on holiday with me best mate.”

He had just said the magical word. Actually, the magical words, plural. He knew that Paul wouldn’t be able to resist to those precious words: best mate, for all his fucking heart breaking thoughts that in his opinion John would have prefer Stuart to him. But they were two completely different people and in John’s eyes, they had two completely different roles, Stuart and Paul.

The smile on Paul’s lips confirmed that John had hit the nail on the head.

“To be clear, Paul, if you don’t come, I’ll find some other travel buddy in no time. I think George would like to -”

“No, no, no, I’m in.” Paul answer hurriedly, his face was suddenly on fire, “I’ll go with you.”

“Good!”

“It’s just that… my dad, it won’t be easy to get his permission.”

“I’m sure you’ll do your best. Just think about what’s waiting for us: new exciting adventure, birds, food that doesn’t taste like harbor, birds, and new kinds of arts and… did I say birds yet?” He asked laughing and his euphoria managed to infect Paul.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“You’d better be persuasive, Paul.” John said, grabbing Paul’s chin with his hand, “Otherwise I’ll kidnap you and take you with me, princess. No matter what.”

Then he pushed his shoulder with one hand.

“Go to your daddy, now. Or there will be no fucking way he’ll let you come with me- if his lunch is late.”

“John!” Paul scolded him, with his voice and his stare, “You’re the one keeping me from preparing it.”

The boy just giggled and started to pull back. Paul stayed on the doorframe, looking at him.

“You should put your glasses on, you prick, Spanish girls don’t like black-and-blue faces.”

Just past the gate, John put his glasses on, turned to him and smiled, lifting his thumb. _Roger._

The next moment John was gone from his view, but Paul had still his eyes fixed on the spot where his friend had stopped to smile at him. He was unable to move, unable to hear anything but the sound of John’s voice inviting him to go on holiday with him or the sound of his own heartbeat hammering fast in his ears.

He smiled, the smile he’d been holding back, thinking of all the times he had to hide the effect the boy with the glasses and  the aquiline nose had on him. That effect he’d had on Paul since their first meeting, since his life changed on that hot, sultry day in July.

****

_He heard the squeals of children playing and the anxious, scolding of mothers all around him in the churchyard. However everything seemed to Paul like a single muffled sound, like he had just stuck his head in a bucket full of tepid water and the voices, the noises came to his ears as distorted and blurred vibrations. The feeling was strengthened by the odd heat of that day. The sun was shining up in the sky, warming the surroundings, but it had a bigger effect on Paul. Sweat drops beaded on his brow and neck and he was sure he had just felt one of them slide down his back. But as long as his hands weren’t sweaty, it wasn’t a problem for Paul._

_He was playing and singing “Twenty Flight Rock” with a guitar that wasn’t his and he had to turn it upside down._

_He was playing with a dozen of eyes fixed on him: there was his mate Ivan, who had convinced him to go to the fete and there were the members of that little Skiffle band. They had already played earlier in the day, on an improvised stage._

_Paul had watched their performance, concentrating so hard that everything else seemed vanish: Paul had stood right there, in front of that trembling stage, captivate by the music he was listening to, sucked into a place where it was just him and those guys, his equals who were not so different from him. He had never felt so excited, so involved and it was because of an unhinged and unknown band, whose singer didn’t remember the lyrics of the song he was singing and was playing with an arguable technique. Maybe this was exactly what had impressed him so much._

_The Quarrymen, or whatever their bloody name was, weren’t afraid of make mistakes, even if it was in front of dozens of people who were there to listen to them. And it wasn’t because most of the audience wouldn’t notice their mistakes. They weren’t afraid because in that moment making a mistake or playing the right chords wasn’t important. What was really important was playing, just playing. Playing until every fucking injustice of life vanished for a moment. Playing with your friends, sharing that feeling that couldn’t be replicated in any other way._

_Just let go. To hell with everything else!_

_The Quarrymen’s singer seemed to know it well. Ivan was a friend of his. His name was John, Ivan had told him. And Paul had been amused: such a simple and common name for a bloke that was certainly self-confident. Judging from his attitude on the stage, with those cocky moves and smirks. He made fun of the audience, rather than seek its approval. He was quite eccentric too._

_He couldn’t be “just John”. Something like Humphrey or Driscoll or, why not, Gaylord would have been more appropriate. Really, a name that made an impression, a name you could go around and say: “Hey, I know a guy named Gaylord.”_

_Someone would surely asked you: “And what is he like?”_

_And because a guy with a name like that must have unique traits for sure, you could start to list every single, juicy detail about the guy, you could be sure that everyone’s attention would be on you while you did. But John? You couldn’t say: “Hey, I know a guy named John.”_

_All anyone would say to that would be: “So? I knew at least seven Johns.”_

_Maybe even John would agree and that was the reason he depended on his look (Teddy boy’s hair, fucking fashionable), the expressiveness of his face (he was always so cheeky and twinkly), the attitude (bold and insolent)… All that was designed to capture the attention of someone, of anybody. Well, he had succeeded. John had all of Paul’s attention._

_And now John was returning the favor, staring at Paul with his magnetic eyes. Charmed, he observed how the fingers of Paul’s left hand moved skillfully on the guitar strings. The chords he played were a little different from the ones that John knew. And, yeah, maybe more appropriate, but just a little bit. He was just a kid, however. How old could he be? Fourteen? He couldn’t possibly know more things than John, who was already a man. That Paul was just a child, a child playing with something bigger than himself._

_He played well, though, John had to admit. He would never have believed it, when Ivan joined them with that toddler, interrupting the celebration of a successful gig. He had introduced him as “Paul McSomething”. John had greeted him with a simple nod, before concentrating on his beer and their post-gig comments. But then Ivan had added something about Paul being able to play guitar too. John really hadn’t find it that interesting, after all a lot of guys knew how to strum a guitar, it wasn’t that special. If John wanted, Paul could play something right there, right now, with his guitar, John’s guitar. No, John didn’t want him to, not at all! However he didn’t want to ruin the party, in case he made the insecure kid cry because of his lack of regard. So he gave his guitar to him with a look that went from “if you just have to do it” to “I’ll fucking cripple you if you scratch it”._

_Paul wasn’t as_ _insecure_ _as he_ _looked_ _. The moment his_ _hand_ _touched the guitar’s neck, his expression_ _changed_ _. As if holding that instrument in his hands meant everything to him. It meant finally being complete. John had sensed that was the case, because that was what happened anytime he grabbed his guitar and started to play. It was the most important thing in his life._

_After just a few chords and the first words Paul sang, John had realized that he wanted the kid in his band. Paul would improve their technique and sound. It would lend steadiness to their shaking wreck, set the screws in their trembling wheels._

_On the other hand, though, John was also afraid. Paul seemed to have a similar attitude to John. If John let him in his band, he would have to share the leadership with him. Paul wasn’t like the others, Paul had something, something John was searching for and was afraid of in anyone else: self-confidence. It was something John only pretended to have. And right there, watching Paul play so fucking well, it had vanished all of sudden, making him feel so naked. It was likely that in the end Paul wouldn’t just share the leadership with John, but maybe he would usurp his role, relegating John to a simple fragment in that painting named Paul McSomething._

_What did he have to do? What did he have to do now, when Paul finished his song and everyone was looking at John?_

_The young man shrugged his shoulders, took back his guitar and handed it to Pete. Then he wrapped an arm around Paul’s shoulders._

_“How old are you, sonny?” he asked, his mouth a few centimeters away from Paul’s face._

_“Fifteen years old.” Paul sneered but not for long. His face relaxed into an eager expression._

_“I’d have given you fourteen.” John said, impressed._

_“What’s the difference?”_

_“Whether or not you have a wank while you’re in the bathroom.”_

_Paul opened his eyes wide, blushing violently. John giggled with his mates and gave Paul a hard pat on the back._

_“Would you like some beer?” he asked, offering him his bottle of beer._

_“No, thanks.”_

_“Well, then…” John sighed, taking a gulp of his drink, “Paul, it was really lovely to meet you, but you know, we have another gig tonight. As with any artist worthy of respect, we need to relax and regain our energy.”_

_Paul nodded in understanding, John gave him another hard pat on the back and waved to the other guys. Paul turned around and left and John followed him with his eyes. Without noticing it, the smile widened on his face. He had made a decision in his head and his heart. A very dangerous choice. But John Lennon loved a risk, no one could doubt that._

_Paul loved a risk too. Nobody knew it, but there was a part of him that was fearless and intrepid. It was exactly what had helped him to play not only well, but very fucking well, just minutes ago. Because of that he was able to ignore the pressure of those curious and surprised looks he was given. Because of that he was able to ignore his more meticulous side, when John leaned on him and talked to him with his beery breath. His two contrasting sides argued a lot because on one hand Paul thought: “What the fuck does this prick want from me?”_

_On the other hand he was sure that the said prick was different than he appeared to be. That there was something completely different in him that was drawing Paul in and that Paul could learn to love._

_John had that something that would change his life forever._

****

And he really had changed his life. Thanks to John, who had accepted him in his band, Paul had experiences that otherwise he could have just dreamed about. His life was a succession of events that had made him grow up, mature musically and personally.

Paul now was a young man, sure of what he wanted. And what he wanted was to follow John, wherever he wanted to go. In a funny way, every time Paul went along John’s ideas, whether they were eccentric or ordinary, he never regretted it.

He sighed, still standing in the same spot where he had just watched his friend leave. He was sure that John wouldn’t let him down this time either.


	2. On the pillow

_“What the fuck did he say?”_

_John’s voice sounded like a growl and Paul had to shut him up with a hand over his mouth._

_“Hush! You promised you wouldn’t get mad.” Paul reminded him, keeping his hand in position._

_John looked at him, frowning and addressing him with a piercing, bothered stare. How dare he request that, after such news?_

_“John, please. If you start to talk too loud, you’ll wake them up. Mike and dad.”_

_John rolled his eyes and shrugged, complying sheepishly with Paul’s prayer. After all they were at the McCartneys’, John was just a guest. He should act like a gentleman, otherwise what would Mimi say?_

_They spent all evening listening to Paul’s records, strumming their guitars, and when Mr. McCartney had ordered that they go to sleep, they turned the light off and kept talking and talking and talking again. It had been just a year since John decided to risk allowing Paul in his band. It was just a year since they started hanging out, yet he got the feeling he’d known him forever. They had the same interests, the same pains, and they’d again found a love for life through music…_

_The talking shifted to the band, to their future, to what would happen to that little group of fellows, what their real perspectives were. And in the middle of that exchange of ideas and dreams, Paul had referred his father’s words: “Why don’t you get rid of John? He’s a troublemaker.” ( 1) And John freaked out. It was John’s band, nobody could take away what was giving a meaning to his life, what he had slowly built up. He couldn’t hold himself when it came to this particular matter. He got mad and got mad very ferociously because nobody, except for the members of the band, could snoop around in their affair, and most of all nobody could tell them what to do or not. John could talk about it, Paul could do it too, and George and Colin, but nobody else._

_Paul immediately reassured him, “The band isn’t going anywhere without you!” then added, “He said so only because he doesn’t know you very well, like I do.”_

_John chuckled and spread on the bed, on his back._

_“You don’t know me, Paul.” he said, shaking his head, a sad smile was stirring his lips._

_Paul looked at him, confused, but shuffled back and lay down next to him._

_“Yes, I do.”_

_Paul wasn’t one that let himself be easily discouraged and John knew it well._

_“Listen, I do know you, John, better than anyone else. Maybe you won’t ever admit it, but you can’t deny it either. For example… I know we go crazy for Elvis and you’d prefer to go and beat up a lamppost, rather than wear those bloody glasses.”_

_“Yeah, but you don’t know that I hope to beat my face against a lamppost to fix this fucking nose I have.” John said and giggled._

_Paul laughed with him as he turned to look at his profile:  “Bullshit. You do it because you always hope to meet your Brigitte Bardot around the corner. Which, let me tell you, will never happen, so give it a rest.”_

_“Hope is the last to die, Paul, don’t you know? So, tell me, what else do you think you know about me?”_

_“I know that your favorite colour is green, that you’d never give up cereals for breakfast, and that you hide drawings of uncertain style in your room.” ( 2)_

_Paul laughed with a hand on his mouth. John seemed annoyed._

_“It’s art, Paul, do you actually understand anything about art?” he teased, more and more entertained by the fact that,of course Paul would know these things about him._

_But Paul just ignored him, because he knew it was just that thing he did when he joked about something was actually the truth. So he continued talking with a quieter tone, more confidential, but also self-confident._

_“I also know that your mother’s death upset you more than you will ever admit it…”_

_John’s expression changed suddenly. First, he was surprised, then taken aback. Paul had recklessly entered in to a hostile and dangerous field. John’s look and features became cold and distant in a beat, but for some strange reason he searched Paul’s eyes anyway._

_“Kid.”_

_Paul, careless about his friend’s threatening expression, carried on: “…and I know you’re keeping yourself from showing how much you’re really suffering, because you think it would mean showing your weakness too.”_

_John frowned and scolded him, with a more severe tone, hoping that Paul would have stopped himself, NOW, before getting John very fucking angry, before forcing John to make Paul shut the fuck up with a punch._

_“Paul-”_

_“But it’s not. John, you don’t have to be afraid, because, you know, it takes great courage to let it go, say that life sucks, and cry and-”_

_John turned on his side and grabbed Paul’s shirt with his hands. Fucking Paul, why didn’t he shut up? Why did he insist on unveiling something that John had buried painfully, deep, so deep inside his heart that nobody could ever find that… thing, and bring it out again, right there, where everybody, in particular John, could see it._

_“John Lennon doesn’t fucking cry, right?” he hissed, a malevolent sneer twisting his lips, “Stick it in that fathead of yours, and then, go fuck yourself.”_

_Despite that intimidating tone, those aggressive words, those hostile gestures, not a single glimmer of worry could be seen onPaul’s face. He just carried on looking at John and talking to him quietly, as if they were still discussing their band’s projects, as if he wanted him to notice, so tenderly, that he hadn’t buried that pain very well. On the contrary it was right there, on the surface, and Paul was the only one who could see it._

_Only Paul._

_“Oh yeah, there isn’t anything else you want more from Julia’s death. You want just to cry, cry until your head ache, until you don’t have tears to cry anymore for her, because she is gone forever-”_

_“Shut the fuck up!” he ordered, tightening the grip on Paul’s shirt._

_John felt his own eyes watering and he tried to stop the forthcoming tears, but he couldn’t, and, truth is, he didn’t want to do it and Paul seemed to know that better than he did, because he had already gone through it. Or maybe it was because he really did know him._

_“…and you can’t do anything to get her back, so you despair, helpless, thinking that you have never hugged her enough and that you won’t smell her perfume anymore. You won’t smell it anymore, John, you won’t see her nor touch her.”_

_“I told you to stop, you asshole!” John burst and pushed him against the wall, with less strength than he wanted. His eyes were clouded with tears he never cried. His heart was pushing them out, despite his mind shouting not to do it, not to fall apart in front of that kid._

_But Paul had already seen them, tears were strolling down John’s face and falling, dying on the pillow._

_“You know it’s true, John, and you know you don’t want to stop me, because you need this, you fucking need it.”_

_“Fuck you, Paul!” he shouted, but his voice was broken from sobbing, which was slowly getting the better of him._

_John hated himself infinitely, thinking himself weak.He fought all his life not to be, not to cry at the umpteenth, heartbreaking injustice that life had set aside for him. Then Paul came along and with just few words, with his soft tone, or maybe with his deep understanding, succeeded in falling him apart. John fucking hated him, he hated everything Paul could set free in him so bloody easily._

_“I promise you it’s going to be alright, John, and if you want to cry, you can. I want to cry too, when I think about her. It’s just… normal. And I promise you it will be our secret and nobody will ever know that the great John Lennon, who is going to be bigger than fucking  Elvis, cried on his friend’s bed, Paul McCartney, who is going to be even bigger than aforementioned John Lennon.”_

_John, helpless, let go a giggle, giving Paul a weak punch on his chest: “Yeah, you’d like it, wouldn’t you?”_

_There was another thing he hated about Paul; how easily he could transmit to him serenity and confidence in himself and in future, how he could infuse in John all those positive feelings that John thought he couldn’t feel and that, on the contrary, they seemed to be always present in Paul._

_“It’s going to be our secret, John. Between you and me.” Paul whispered, putting a finger on his lips, “And the pillow.”_

_Another laugh and then John gave up and cried and cried.Paul stayed next to him, murmuring every now and then words of comfort, even crying with him, just to reassure him that he wasn’t alone in the pain, that he didn’t have to be alone and that he, whenever he desired, could count on to Paul to share that loss, of which nobody could ever try to find a solution._

_And from that moment John and Paul would cry together for death and sometimes they would laugh about it. Because they could do that, but just the two of them and nobody else. Nobody, not even George nor Colin could do it._

_Just the two of them, on that pillow, that, willing or not, hosted and erased their tears and their laughs._

****

Paul caressed his pillow, which he rested his head on every night, and sighed, thinking of the many and important events of that day.

He had just finished talking to his dad about the trip issue.

Since John had invited him in his journey, all of Paul’s feelings were turned on and set free at the same time, making him too agitated: there was the excitement for a new, mysterious adventure; the sweet warmth of those few words that Paul had expected and desired to hear forever; and then there wasthe fear to tell his father that he was about to leave, for who knew how many days and to where exactly, with that bloke Jim really didn’t like.

Oh, but he had to do it! Paul couldn’t just take everything and leave. At his return, surely the door of his house would be closed, maybe forever.

So, all afternoon Paul had thought and tried to find the words, the best way to give the news to his dad.It had never been so difficult, not even when he had to tell him about the hiring in Hamburg. After all, in that case, it was a _job_ , a word that his father liked very much, and maybe Paul would earn some money. But this? It was just a trip, a diversion, he wouldn’t have achieved anything at all, just a huge waste of time. He already felt like he was hearing those words in his father’s calm tone: _“Why would you waste your time this way, when you could just find a job? A real job.”_

That placid tone that hurt him much more than a good wrath, as every other father did. Paul,though, was used to it, they had been down that path many times and Paul knew he didn’t have to give up because of what his father thought about him, about what he did, his clothes, his friends. It was just the natural generational gap between parents and kids. It was something John would repeat to him anytime, sometimes rudely, but Paul understood and trusted John about anything he said and did.

In the evening, after dinner, after Mike said goodnight and vanished upstairs, Paul finally decided to talk to his father, finding somewhere inside himself the courage to face him. Where exactly he didn’t know, but he knew for sure that it was there thanks to John. John had planted it there during those years, since the first time he found the courage to let himself go in front of Paul, on his very bed, on his pillow. Thinking about that moment, Paul told his father he wanted to leave with John. His voice and attitude were as resolved and calm as they were with John. Paul mustn’t have seemed too cocky or pretentious, but neither too submissive. He was nineteen years old at this point. He wasn’t asking his permission to leave, he was just informing him, that’s all.

His father wasn’t exactly enthusiastic at first, but not for the reason Paul was expecting. Jim didn’t understand why John wanted to spend all that money on him too.

If Paul had known precisely, he could have answered him. But no, he didn’t knowand maybe he didn’t want to: John was giving him this present and Paul was sure that John himself didn’t know the reason behind his proposal, but Paul accepted it, without asking whys or wherefores.

He answered his father just shrugging his shoulders and with a proud, “I’m his best mate.”

It was a not too bad answer, though Jim looked at him quite skeptically. Paul didn’t understand if his father’s skepticism was due to that answer or to the clear pride in those words. All he understood was that his old man had nodded with a sign that meant unequivocally ok, and Paul felt a little part of himself jumping with surprise and happiness, while the other was bracing to accept any of his father’s conditions. So Paul accepted to do the housework for a whole month, to cook for him and Mike and above all to not receive any bob from his father, because John was paying for everything. Not a problem, Paul could use his savings. After all, it could have been worse. He must consider himself lucky, very lucky.

And now he was on his bed, staring at the ceiling, his hands under the pillow. He was so happy that if he had let go of it, he was sure he could levitate. He was about to leave with John and his father was letting him go without resentment. He was about to leave with John to Spain for a long journey, during which they might go through France and Paris, maybe, with Moulin Rouge, the Champs- Élysées and that scrap iron named The Eiffel. Tower. It may just be iron, but he will see it with John and John was able to make everything like an absolute masterpiece.

Paul was looking forward to how much he would enjoy the trip. It would be just the two of them, Paul and John, because John had chosen him first, he had thought of his best mate. He smiled unknowingly, thinking back those words, but then he heard a tiny annoying voice that started to whisper devilishly that John had chosen Paul because Stuart was no longer in Liverpool. Because fucking Stuart stayed in fucking Hamburg and John couldn’t count on his friendship any longer, at least around the clock, seven days a week… But no, it wasn’t that the reason. John had chosen Paul just because he was Paul, not his second-best, not a substitute for Stuart. It had to be so.

The devilish voice kept with its singsong and Paul pushed the pillow against his ears.He hated it, he hated that part of himself that was always being rational about everything and seeing the consequences straight away it ruined everything. Why couldn’t he just be as John? Impulsive in the same way, uncaring when it occurred…

Then he remembered John’s tears on the pillow, he remembered that soft side that John would show only to him in the most desperate nights. He remembered everything that was behind that John and he was happy to be _Paul_. He remembered John’s heartbreaking words, about not being wanted from his parents, about the fact that there was no bigger pain. Paul, on the contrary, had been loved by his parents, his father needed him so far and the same was true for Paul. He remembered the tragic and sudden way Julia was taken from lifeand from John, and he thought back to his mother, to how he’d slowly gotten used to the idea of her death and he was thankful to have been able to say goodbye. A pity granted to him but not to John, a cruel destiny that was mocking who didn’t deserve such awful pains.

He was thankful to be Paul and always would be, because only Paul could have gotten near John in that way. If he hadn’t been Paul, maybe he would just have been “the lad that played with John”, just an acquaintance or maybe a friend as many others were, but not the best.

He was the best, no doubt about it.

John’s best mate.

He smiled, relaxed and satisfied to have been able to shut down that hateful tiny voice, and he looked at the watch. It was past midnight. As soon as the sun rose, he would get up and run to tell John the good news. John would be proud of him, the way he faced his father, to have been persuasive, because now John didn’t need to kidnap him.

With euphoria flowing through his veins, Paul turned on his side, hiding his face on the pillow and breathing in the smell on the pillowcase. He could just hear every moan, every laugh he and John shared. He could feel the wetness, he could hear the sound, he could feel anything that his pillow had assorbed about John and Paul. It was the best lullaby.

Sighing, he closed his eyes, ready to abandon himself to his sweet dreams, and he hoped that the night passed quickly, just to be with John and tell him…

“I’ll go with you.”

_( 1)– Quote taken from the Anthology_

_( 2)- I found John’s favourite colour and food on one of those collectible cards of the 60s. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we go with chapter 2.   
> Again, the part in italic is a flashback. I really don't have anything much to say about this chapter, but I do hope you like it. :3  
> Thanks to [sherlocked221 ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlocked221/pseuds/sherlocked221) because she corrected the chapter. And also to the lovely [whydonwedoitontheinternet](http://whydontwedoitontheinternet.tumblr.com/) because of her support and friendship and her wonderful drawings. *^*  
> Next chapter, Jealousy, crazy jealousy, will be online on Wednesday. ;)


	3. Jealousy, crazy jealousy

"Do you know what time is it, Paul?"

 

Paul smiled at him, looking John up and down: he was still wearing pajamas, had sleepy eyes and a bad case of bed head. A pair of glasses rested on his nose. He was looking at him with the most annoyed look Paul had ever seen, but Paul didn’t care much, because the news he was going to tell him would cheer him up.

 

"It's time to tell you we're leaving."

 

"That I already knew, you idiot." John exclaimed, looking up to the sky.

 

"No no, John. Let's go!"He said, scanning the words,"Last night I told my dad and he didn’t kick up a fuss. He’ll let me come with you. "

 

John let go of a yawn as if he didn’t care much about Paul's sensational news.

 

"Oh yes, great, Paul. Now, if you want excuse me, I have to go to sleep some more."

 

And he tried to close the door, but Paul laughed and blocked it with one hand: he wasn’t stupid, he knew that John was just teasing him and that he was pretending not to share his own enthusiasm. The truth was in his eyes: John's eyes glittered with his adventurous spirit that was slowly awakening with him that morning.

 

"Come on, John, you can’t sleep now. We have to prepare a lot of things, organize the trip, decide the itinerary..."

 

"And should we do it now? Right-fucking-now?!"

 

Paul shrugged. "Of course, why should we wait? Don’t you know that the early birds catches the worm?"

 

"Christ, Paul. You’re talking just like Mimi. If they gave me a shilling whenever I heard this saying, at this time I would be rich, fucking rich!"

 

John snorted and let him in, wondering why he had chosen Paul "the fussy" McCartney for that trip.

 

"Will Her Majesty grant me permission to wash me first?" John asked, with a little bow.

 

"Of course, dear boy."

 

"Then come upstairs, daft." he said, making his way up the stairs, "Wait in my room."

 

"Can I use your guit-" Paul began to ask with a smile of thirty-two teeth printed on his face.

 

But he didn’t finish the sentence, as John turned abruptly and pointed a threatening index an inch away from his nose: "Touch it and you're a fucking dead man!"

 

"All right." Paul exclaimed, laughing, "Then can I leaf through your sketches?"

 

"Haven’t you done it the last time you came here?"

 

"So? I like them!"

 

"But didn’t you find them… wait, how was it?... Ah yes! Of uncertain style?" John asked, confused.

 

"Well, a man can change his ideas, can’t he?" he said,shrugging his shoulders.

 

John sighed as they went up the stairs and reached his bedroom.

 

"Okay then, but woe betide you if you touch anything else." he reminded, giving him a pinch on his side.

 

Paul writhed laughing and promised he would be a good, compliantlad and soon afterward, John pulled his shirt off, threw it violently on his friend and disappeared into the bathroom. Paul smiled to himself, clutching the shirt in his hands, and entered the room. He looked a bit around. As usual, chaos was reigning over the bedroom: the bed was still undone, the guitar was out of its case, there were numerous sheets on his desk, on which poems or maybe songs were reported, and the previous day’s clothes were abandoned on the floor or on the chair, everywhere John had passed. If it was true that a lad’s room reflected his own soul, then about John it could safely be said that his bedroom was literally his soul. There were so many things, always in constant disorder. Yet in that disorder, John managed to find his bearings very well and find what he was looking for. Once Paul had tried to order his desk, just to give him a favour: drawingswith drawings and poems with poems, but then John was angry because he had arranged them with a very precise criterion, instead collected into that way they no longer made sense. He had told him: "Why should it always be black or white for you? There's also grey, you know?"

 

It was true, after all, Paul thought. His approach about anything was always totally interested or disinterested. There was no way in the middle. When he liked something, he would spend all the time in the world for it and could talk about it for hours and hours. On the contrary, he was very closed about uncomfortable arguments, ignoring them as if they didn’t exist. It had always been this way and if he was changing now, it was thanks to John. John had brought the nuances in his life, because for him there were only those and nothing was completely impossible or completely feasible. The ways of escape, the troubles were always ready, around the corner, and Paul had learned to recognize them.

 

Smiling at his thoughts, he sat down on the bed, sinking into the soft mattress and then stretched his hand under the bed, where John hid his sketch album. It was a little notebook with a burgundy cover, a bit worn out at the corners and with few yellow, orange and green brush strokes. Paul laid on the bed, leaning his head on the pillow and began to browse the album. There was no problem in saying that the first time Paul had seen John’s drawings, he was taken aback, just as when they met each other. He didn’t understand exactly what the inspiration or intention behind the drawings was. What had brought John to that particular subject in that particular position?

Then, looking carefully at the different drawings, depicting small, completely naked little men, bald, with prominent bellies, almost like egg-shaped men, he chuckled. Paul had learned to appreciate those sketches, with that simple and direct style, with that irony that was showed by his art, not just by his way of making music. He liked them because it wasn’t necessary to always find an explanation for art, but above all because those drawings represented nothing but every little detail that passed through the head of their author. Those surreal-looking scenes were perfectly clear inside John: he would see them with his mind and quickly put them on paper without hesitation. His line was thin, almost elegant... perfect! And yes, Paul found the art of John absolutely fascinating.

 

"Is this new?" He asked when John entered the room and started dressing up with a pair of jeans and a t-shirt.

 

"Yes, I did it last night."

 

Paul sat down, continuing to look at the drawing. There was one of those bald eggmen who was playing the trumpet for charity, and holding a stick and a dog's leash.

 

"Look, John, if we won’t break through with the band, you could always try with your art. Maybe you can sell something like Stuart." _( 1)_

 

John burst out laughing as he put on his boots and nearly lost the balance: "Yeah, of course, Macca. As if someone could ever beinterested in buying this shit."

 

"Why not? I can already see it, the exhibition of great John Lennon’s art. And the queues to get in and give a quick look at your drawings."

 

"Kid, I've already asked you to leave with me to Spain, so you can just stop kissing my ass, even if I just washed it and clearly it’s pleasant for you to do it."

 

"I'm serious, John." Paul said frankly.

 

John came closer and looked at him for a long moment, with a kind of silent gratitude in his eyes; then he smiled, ruffling his hair with affection and making appear an annoyed grimace on Paul’s face.

 

"Come on, what if we start spending some of those quid?"

The question wiped away at once Paul’s annoyance about his hair no longer in order.

 

"I say... gear!"

 

"Let's go then."

 

John gave him sign to go out and Paul placed the album under the mattress, right in his place again. Then he got up and followed John downstairs.

 

"Exactly, where are we going?" He asked as they left Mendips.

 

"I thought, given that we should move hitchhiking, we should be presentable. The look of Teddy Boys isn’t particularly recommended, is it?"John pointed out and then snorted bothered.

 

"What do you suggest then?"

 

"Think about it, Paul, what is the unmistakable sign of recognition of the classical English gentleman?"

 

Paul thought a little bit about, putting his finger on his lips. Then the answer flashed in his head like a lightning thunder.

 

"A fucking bowler!"

 

"A fucking bowler." John repeated and gave him a loudpat on his shoulder, "Let's get a couple, what do you think?"

 

Paul burst out laughing: "I always wondered how I’d look with a bowler on my head!"

 

"Like a prick, Paul. But we need it."John told him, grabbing the sleeve of Paul’s jacket and pulling him to hurry.

 

Paul nodded and kept the pace. Then suddenly he remembered his grave lack toward John, a lack that he absolutely had to fix. How couldn’t he tell him that little word after all that John was doing for him?

 

"John?" Paul called, stopping in the middle of the street.

 

"Mm?"

 

"Thank you."

 

His friend turned to look at him with a surprised and pleased expression: "What for?"

 

"For choosing me."

 

 "Who else would I have to choose?" He asked as he let a laugh, as if he believed that Paul was not serious, that they were still in joke-y mode.

 

Paul blushed though, and shook his head, avoiding John's gaze: "No one, John. Nobody else."

 

But John could see him, the deep doubt in Paul's eyes, the real doubt that Paul was awkwardly trying to hide. And it wasn’t just in his eyes, it was written on all his face, whoelse John could have chosen.

 

Silly boy.

 

John smiled slightly.

 

"Paul, do you know that even if he was here, I would always choose you?"

 

***

 

_Here he is. Stuart not-a-note Sutcliffe._

_The more Paul looked at him, the more he was seething with anger. Stuart had never been a great bass player, actually, you could say he wasn’t a musician either. He was in the band because he was John's best friend. And that was definitely a very good reason, with all the fucking story that the band was John’s and several blah blah blah..._

_Too bad that the only real contribution Stuart was giving to the group was the recall of a steady flow of birds, because he was the most beautiful, elegant, and peaceful one. Even after hours and hours of playing and singing, he was still perfectly dry, clean and fragrant, while everyone else seemed to have participated in the Olympics marathon. How did he do it? How-did-he-fucking-do-it? After each performance, Paul smelled like he had never washed himself in his entire life. Fortunately, it didn’t seem to be a matter in picking up birds. After all, he also had a charm not bad at all. It was a part of himself that he had started to notice when he joined John's band. He had started to notice it, and especially he had begun to look after it. When you’re performing on a stage, talent isn’t enough; the looks mean a lot, and Stuart was the perfect example. And when you’re performing in front of horny birds, talent counts even less._

_However, Paul wasn’t working hard to play for this kind of audience. Or at least, not just for them._

_They had just finished performing for that night. As usual, there was a group of German birds waiting for them. John and George winked at each other, seeming impatient to dive into that post-concert activity. Of course, Paul was no less impatient, but he felt the pressing need to point out a problem to the whole group._

_"We fuckin'sucked this evening!" He burst out furiously, as everybody put their instruments in the case._

_"What? That's not true."John said, smiling._

_"It is, George was completely out of tune-"_

_"Hey, fuck you, it's the new strings!" the youngest component of the band protested,hurt._

_But Paul ignored him and continued, turning to John: "You idiot forgot the words in 'Sweet little sixteen' and do not let me talk about Stuart, otherwise we'll stay here all the fucking night."_

_"Paul-" John began, tired to face this corny question, but was interrupted by Stuart who came up beside him._

_On his beautiful face there was the most serene of the expressions. All the opposite, instead, showed Paul's face._

_"No, John, let him talk. I'm curious to hear what our little friend has to say."_

_Paul wrinkled his forehead even more, if it had been possible, and his hands clenched into fists: "You know what the fuck I'm going to say. Your playing is shit and we'll never break throughwith you in the group. Because of you, we will always be stuck in these fucking squalid rooms, playing for a pot of beans. This is not my goal and I won’t just stay here and look as you ruin our lives and there-"_

_"Enough now!" John abruptly interrupted him, evidently disturbed by the degenerating situation._

_At his side, Stuart chuckled extremely cheerfully: "You're so funny, Paul. I could just tell me off myself. Always saying the same shit, you are."_

_"At least somebody says it in this crappy group. Nobody has the courage to do it, apparently, right, John?"_

_"Ohw, Paulie, come on! Don’t get poor old Johnny involved. It's not his fault if I make mistakes."_

_"It's his fault if you're in the band though."_

_"John gave me a chance because I'm his best friend, Paul." Stuart commented, looking at him with an expression and a smile that, in Paul's eyes, seemed like a challenge._

_And along with Stuart’s words, 'I’m his best friend', that challenge hit Paul right in his chest with the flaming knife of jealousy. It was nothing but jealousy, crazy, upsetting jealousy. The jealousy that made him blind, the jealousy Paul had never felt so obsessive about someone, and he was feeling it for John now._

_"But you're not taking advantage of it and certainly, you aren’t paying him for his stupid trust."_

_Stuart laughed again: "And who are you? His defense lawyer?"_

_And with those last words, Stuart wrapped an arm around John's neck. Paul was suddenly blind. He was no defense lawyer for anybody, or maybe, he should have been looking for one after what he was going to do._

_He threw himself on Stuart and both fell to the ground with a dull sound, amid the glances of the other guys. Paul had begun to pour out his anger on the lad under him, with punches well placed on Stuart's graceful jaw. His contender didn’t stand looking at him, but started to kick blindly, hoping to hit his assailant, and he tried to grab his shoulders. When Stuart succeeded, he overturned their positions and the next moment, he was the one to pour out punches on Paul's beautiful face. Their mates realized that nothing could have stopped the two crazy rivals. When blood magically appeared on the lip of both of them, they decided to intervene physically. George and Pete grabbed Stuart, pulling him away from Paul, while John grasped the little kid who had caused that fight and forced him to stand up. Then he pushed him carelessly off the stage._

_"Go for a ride, Paul, and try to clear your fucking mind." John burst out, annoyed._

_Paul wiped his blood on his lip and looked at him, as if John had caused that wound. And in a certain way it was just like that. He had just made it, taking Stuart's defenses first, with his bitter words now, with his angry hard push. He hurt him. No, not on the lip. He hurt him deeper, very deep inside him._

_"Yeah, of course, I just knew that."_

_John watched the afflicted expression on his friend's face and sighed exhausted, running a hand through his hair, "What?"_

_"That you would have chosen Stuart, John. You always choose Stuart."_

***

 

Paul nodded shyly under John's sincere and fiery look.

 

Surely John would have chosen Paul. John had chosen him as his bandmate and would have chosen him forever. John had wanted him by his side. It was completely different with Stuart. Stuart had ended up in his life as most people would end up in anyone's life. John had made friends with him at school and he was certainly one of his dearest friends, but he didn’t choose him first.

 

And who knows if Paul could ever understand that small, big difference; who knows if that stupid, useless jealousy Paul felt for him would ever cease. A small part of John felt so incredibly flattered by the fact that Paul cared so much about him and that he probably would have felt that jealousy all his life. But all within him was screaming that Paul was just a stupid little boy because he felt such a feeling about John, that he was wasting time and effort to obsessively seek John's affection and attention because he wasn’t really worth it. John was just a huge dickhead that didn’t even deserve to be with Paul. He really was surprised that this little lad offered him such a pure and sincere friendship, so essentialfor his life that John would have been the first to suffer to not have Paul always by his side.

 

That's why he had chosen him and would have continued to do it all his life, even when Paul would have been tired of him or when hewould have found a girl for himself.

 

"Well, then let's go and watch yourself if you annoy me with this shit again. Clear?"

 

"Crystalline, John." Paul replied, with a grateful smile.

 

They resumed walking and John began to explain his plans for the trip. They would hitch-hike to Dover and then take the ferry to Calais ("Ferry, John? I'll be seasick again!", "Do you want to swim? It's a long way down to Calais.", “In that case I guess the ferry will be ok, sir.") and from there again hitchhiking to Spain. Paul was so excited as he listened to John and was grateful to be walking because he felt the need to move in some way, with any part of his body. It wasn’t just because of their imminent journey, it was also due to what John had told him before.

 

John had never been one of those who liked to talk about his own feelings and was struggling to show how much he would care to someone, Paul knew that very well. He knew why he had let John tease him for his crazy jealousy. Sometimes John had used rude words against him, words that Paul didn’t expect, but they had come and he had welcomed them patiently, without answering sometimes, because that was just John's way of confronting. Just as Paul knew he was the cheerful and sweet guy who rushed out to his best friend to ask him to leave with him, he could also become crabby, violent and heavy when he addressed Paul with not very nice nicknames. He wasn’t even joking sometimes, he was damn serious. Yet Paul went through all of this, because when you decide to be with someone, you must accept every part of them. And Paul had accepted John's sun as well his darkness.

 

For this reason, hearing those words from him, that he would have chosen Paul on anyone else, had literally captivated him. He wanted to show him how he felt, he wanted to write a song to get him, but he held himself, otherwise John would tease him, and it wasn’t something he wanted to be teased about. It was the dearest friendship he had, and Paul was looking after it as the most precious treasure, hidden inside him, safe from anyone who wanted to destroy it without mercy.

 

So,Paul followed John when he entered the first hat shopthey bumped into, and together they try on those typically English bowlers.

 

"Too small for my head."

 

"You shouldn’t be surprised, John, with that big head of yours!"

 

"Stu, oh Stu, come back to me! You really are a true friend..."

 

Then again Paul followed him when they paid the two hats to the cash register. And then Paul’s attention was so focused, so absorbed in how the hat maker was packing the bowlers that suddenly he lost sight of John. Paul looked around in the shop and didn’t see him anywhere: he had to leave at certain point without Paul noticing it. He took the two boxes, greeted and thanked the man and left the shop. John wasn’t anywhere on the street or in the nearby store.

 

Where the hell was he?

 

Finally, he saw him, in a lane near the hat shop, in a girl's arms, a girl with a soft woolen sweater and long, blond hair. John was in Cynthia's arms, on her mouth, with his hands everywhere on her back.

 

Paul retreated immediately, realizing that despite everything, John couldn’t always choose Paul; that whatever John had told him, Paul would have been just his crazy jealous friend and he would have been forever.

 

 

_( 1)- In 1959 Stuart sold one of his painting for 65 pounds. He used this money to buy a bass guitar, after being convinced by John and Paul._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, chapter 3. I love jealous Paul. I really really love him. And we'll have many occasions to see him. :3  
> I read in the Anthology that Paul never got over his jealousy about John and Stu.   
> However, thank you very much to sherlocked221 and whydontwedoitontheinternet. <3  
> Next chapter, Ready for everything, will be online before Tuesday. Until I finish translating all chapters (and there are only 4 left) I'll post once a week. After I finish them all I'll post twice a week. :D  
> Bye bye!


	4. Ready for anything

_The Fox and Hounds was a pub in the Caversham ( 1) district. It was certainly not the best-known, tidy and clean pub in the suburb, but Paul could say for sure that he had frequented much more squalid and smelly pubs in his still young life._

_Just before Easter holidays, an idea had come to his cousin Betty that he should work in the pub she ran with her husband Mike. "After all, Paul, you have nothing better to do." Well, that was what she and his father might think, but not him. He had his band’s rehearsals and then there was Dot: he couldn’t leave that poor girl all alone. How would she do without him? He could always survive for a few days without her passionate kisses and daring caresses, but what about Dot? She would stay in her room, crying and despairing, missing her gorgeous boyfriend. She wouldn’t even want to go out to pick up some lad to spend the evening with, because once you’ve tasted Paul McCartney, all the others guys pale in comparison, all the others would be inane, insignificant, insipid and many other insults that began with "in-"._

_In the end, he accepted the job proposal, forced by his father, and Paul had the great idea of dragging John along with himself, so at least the trip wouldn’t be a total drag. And in fact, hitchhiking from Liverpool to Caversham was quite fun, as well as tiring. Then, once they got to the pub, the fun had vanished and they had been relegated behind the pub counter, working, serving customers, washing dishes, throwing rubbish, and cleaning the fucking toilets. Definitely hard work, but John's company made it more bearable, indeed; it was almost pleasant working next to John, who commented cruelly on the customer’s orders and thought about unlikely hypotheses on their private lives._

_Then one day Mike proposed to Paul and John to play right there in his pub on Saturday night. And they accepted without hesitation, very glad to be able to perform for an audience and practice, so their artistic skills wouldn’t be at a standstill. Fortunately, they had brought the guitars, their inevitable companions for any trip. In no time at all, they found a name for their duo, the Nerk Twins, and they played and sang in that little pub, somewhere in England. They sang, without a microphone, for a crowd that perhaps didn’t really appreciate them, but at least someone was listening, without throwing them the first handy object. ( 2)_

_Paul thought about the previous evening, washing the pints in the sink and placing them in the shelves. The Nerk Twins weren’t bad at all, they had their own charm, even though they were only two. Of course, at first it was strange, they were too used to the sound of a more complex group, such as the one they were so attached to, and that it hadn’t found its definitive name yet. However, Paul had to admit that the two of them were good just by their  selves and he was reluctant to admit it now, but he had a lot more fun playing only with John, improvising with him, counting only on his support, his encouraging look... It had been magical._

_"Hey, dolly!"_

_The familiar voice came behind Paul and he turned around, looking exasperated to John and holding his hands on his hips in a total "not funny" attitude. And it really wasn’t!_

_"Oh, forgive me, sir!" his friend exclaimed, surprised, "I thought you were a gorgeous chick!"_

_John sat at the counter, laughing at his own joke. He was the only one, because Paul was looking at him with a deep frown on his face, though he wasn’t really offended._

_"Where have you been?"_

_"Cleaning those loos. And let me tell you that it’s fucking appropriate calling them shitty." he said with the most disgusting grimace Paul had ever seen on his face._

_At that moment, with that sophisticated, almost snobby air, the social class difference between him and Paul became more evident. It was something John had always tried to hide, acting as someone who came from the working class, someone like Paul. But the reality was that John was more from middle-class than he wanted, and Paul chuckled when John’s features showed the side he was trying to hide._

_"Dirty work, huh?"_

_"You can say it loudly, baby. I was about to throw up."He sighed and dropped his head on the counter, "Now will you give this man a drink? I'm thirsty."_

_"What do you prefer, darling?" He asked, picking up a clean glass._

_"You choose. I give you free rein."_

_“That’s a fucking honor!”_

_Paul laughed and thought for few moments what he could prepare to treat his exhausted and nauseated friend. The idea that flashed in his mind was perfect and he began to prepare a drink they only tasted there, a typical drink in London and the surrounding area - the Pimm's. He served it to John with the addition of some whiskey, which John particularly appreciated._

_"Here you go."_

_John raised his head and watched the glass with amber liquid, ice cubes, a slice of orange and a mint leaf. And then, curiously, he looked at Paul._

_"Why?"_

_"What?" Paul asked, confused._

_"Why did you just choose this?" He asked, leaning his head on his hand._

_"Because it's snobby and elegant like you-"_

_"I'm not snobby!" John protested._

_"Yes, you are, John, you really are." Paul said, nodding, "But above all I chose that because, as Betty said, that's what likeable people like. Nothing more suited to great John Lennon, right?"_

_John snorted: "Nobody likes me."_

_Paul let out a laugh and leaned his elbows on the counter. "You can bet your nice ass everybody likes you. Everybody, John."_

_"That’s not true."_

_"Yes, it is. Everybody likes you, John. It’s just that not everyone knows how much they like you, even if they treat you badly. They act like that because they like you so much you just wrong foot them and they don’t know how to deal with you. The fact is, you mess with everyone’s life, John." Paul explained, smiling amused._

_John seemed puzzled, almost disoriented: he was convinced that Paul was teasing him, but that wasn’t the face of anyone who was pulling his leg on one of the most delicate arguments about John._

_"You too?"_

_He asked that to Paul with such an odd hint of innocence for his voice that yes, even Paul was confused. Just for a moment, obviously. He looked at John with wide eyes for a moment and then laughed._

_"I guess that perhaps the day we met, well, you might have been a little weird, but nothing more. Then I got to know you and no, John, I'm the only one you can’t ever mess with."_

_"But do you like me as well?" He asked hopefully._

_And Paul nodded to that little hope that made him smile, "Of course, John, it’s sure I fucking like you."_

_John smiled, pleased, and his smile stayed as he brought the glass to his lips and tasted the fresh drink. His first terribly bitter taste turned into something extremely sweet and fruity, and the intense scent of the liquor whetted his nostrils._

_As he drank, he looked at Paul, back to his work. Oh, that little brat! He had lied, he had lied to John, right to him, because yes, Paul liked him and yes, John could mess with Paul until the latter went into total confusion. It was just that Paul knew how to hide it to John and in the past years John had learned to recognize when he did so, he had learned to recognize how his attitude hurried itself to show exactly the opposite of what was written in his eyes. Paul’s eyes never lied, it was what John could always trust on, what allowed him to fully understand Paul and what he felt, what he was thinking, what he wanted... Wasn’t this one of Paul's characteristics that John liked more about him?_

_"I like you too, Paul." he said in a low voice, his glass still on his lips._

_Paul turned and gave him a confused look, "Did you say something?"_

_John smiled with a sardonic grin._

_"Yeah, I said that pinny suits you, honey. You really are a girl to marry, Macca."_

_Paul sighed exasperated and looked up to heaven._

_"John, luv, let me tell you once and for all: go fuck yourself!"_

_"I think this is impossible, lads." A male voice said._

_They both turned to see Mike, Betty's husband, approaching them hastily. His gaze dropped on the glass in John's hands and he immediately became very serious._

_"We were just kidding, Mike." Paul said._

_"Well then, you two funny lads, get ready because I want you to play again in ten minutes."_

_"Now? But there’s no one!" Paul protested, pointing to the pub that was practically empty, apart from three men sat on separate tables with the only company of a pint of beer._

_"It's lunch time, someone will come for sure. Same set list from last night, guys. You can start with 'The world is waiting for the sunrise' and then go on with 'Be bop to lula'."_

_"Okay." John said, crossing his arms, "But if you want us to play here today, you have to pay two quid each."_

_Mike's eyes widened deeply indignant, and the same thing happened to Paul, even if he was obviously surprised rather than indignant._

_"Excuse me?"_

_"Take or leave, mate. I do not show myself with my partner for free. It's just a matter of respect for my job."_

_Mike looked at him intensely. The disappointment had vanished from his face and had left room for something very similar to interest._

_"Just a quid altogether." He replied._

_"Three."_

_"Two and I pay the return ticket."_

_"Deal."_

_"Well, then get ready now."_

_Mike left and Paul looked at John just a second before he burst out laughing with him._

_"What’s the matter with you?" He asked when the laughter died._

_"My dear, it's a tough world the showbiz. You have to get used to it when we’ll become famous with the band."_

_"Speaking of which..." Paul began, removing the apron, "I wonder what the others are thinking about."_

_"About what?"_

_"About us disappearing overnight."_

_"It's just a week, Paul. What do you want them to think?"_

_"I don’t know, maybe that we want to break the group and... just play the two of us, together."_

_John looked at him, thoughtful. It wasn’t a strange thought: in the last few days, he himself had thought of this possibility. It was a fucking tempting idea. They would have to split the fee only in two and take decisions with just two heads. Two hotheads maybe, but they had their friendship, their understanding one other with a simple glance. That was a fast exchange of opinions that revealed an infinite understanding, so extraordinary that each time John was surprised, stunned._

_"Do you mean one of those gossips that break even the biggest partnerships in music history?"_

_Paul laughed: "Yes, kind of. They can fucking lead to the band’s break up."_

_"Well, if we are at this point now, it only means two things." John said thoughtfully._

_"That is?"_

_"That is we are about to breakup or we are really about to break through. Either case it's okay for me."_

_"Why?"_

_"Because if the band break up, it’ll be just you and I."_

_Paul gave him a deeply skeptical look, then smiled at him._

_"You would regret it two seconds later. It took a long time to give life and firmness to this band, you've made sacrifices and wasted energy, John, you could never stand the break up of the band, not even to continue playing with me alone."_

_There he goes. Paul came into action, his incredible adventure partner looked at the deepest point in John’s heart and gave it a voice. He was right, John would never give up the band. After all it was his fucking band!_

_"You know, Macca, maybe for a while since I knew you, you said a reasonable thing."_

_"Anyway, the idea is beautiful, we could just save it for the future, when we are rich and famous..." Paul finished with a cheeky wink._

_"When we have to stand anybody else anymore, not even see their faces every fucking day, and the discussions will destroy us from within?"_

_"We will never be destroyed, John." Paul said._

_John stared at the optimism on his friend’s face, heard his resolute tone, the self-confidence in his words, and for a moment he let himself enjoying all the strong feelings that Paul could infuse him with the simplest gesture. He giggled, drinking the last drops of his drink, thinking that the bitter and sweet taste was just like the musical adventure they were sharing. There was the bitterness of difficult times, the crises in which they thought they would never have succeeded to break through and give meaning to their efforts; but there was also the sweetness of the joys they had felt together, those moments that seemed to open the doors for a better future, a future that would only give them happiness. Paul held every single nuance of their adventures within himself, and next to him John could deal with anything._

_"Well, then, let’s get our guitars back. If we aren’t going to destroy us, your cousin will think about it."_

*****

 

Eventually the band didn’t break; otherwise a few days after that short holiday out of Liverpool, they had also found the definitive name, the perfect one that everyone liked: the Beatles, with an “a”.

Then the hiring in Hamburg had come, and now John was sure that it wasn’t long before their golden chance had arrived, the one that would lead them to areal contract, their songs on a record, the one that would have repaid all their efforts.

 

John was certain that moment would come,and this would have been possible thanks mainly to the lad who was now with him and who had an unhealthy tone on his skin.

 

They had left for just an hour by ferry from Dover. The white cliffs were now a candy, thin strip that stood on the horizon behind them. The taste and smell of the salty sea water were tickling the nostrils, the chilly air at the end of September tingled the face with annoyance, but with Paul about to empty his stomach any moment, it was more appropriate to stay outside, on the poop deck. The boy was on a small wooden bench, and John turned to look at him, leaning against the white ferry railing. His face was pale, almost cadaveric; he was lying on the bench, lifting his knees and taking a hand on his forehead. A small cure to less feel the ferry's waving movements. The sea wasn’t really calm that day, Paul had been unlucky.

 

"Hey, princess, how are you?"

 

"Fuck you." It was the short, concise, and lamenting answer.

 

He was feeling really bad. So John chuckled and approached, sitting beside his head. Maybe some Lennonian comfort would have helped his health.

 

"John? How much longer until we arrive, John?" He whispered.

 

“A little while yet, try to resist, luv. Think of how many good things to eat are waiting for us across the Channel: hot and steamy onions soup, a creamy liver paté with a pungent flavor and ah! Those smelly French cheeses-"

 

Paul's face looked disgusted: "JOHN! If you don’t want me to throw up on your pants, stop it now!"

 

John laughed and run a hand acrossPaul’s hair.

 

"Poor little Paulie and his tiny weak stomach. It’s going to be a great journey, huh?" He sighed, "Let’s hope it’ll be better on the mainland. What do you think?"

 

Paul looked up at him and frowned. "I'm so sorry."

 

"What for?" He asked, locking eyes with Paul.

 

"I'm ruining the crossing."

 

"Well, I don’t think there’s something else very exciting to do on a ferry, apart from sitting and watching England getting far and far. Actually, your being sick makes the journey interesting. For example, we can bet on when and what you will throw up. What about that muffin with blueberries we had before embarking? If we are lucky, we will also be able to pick up the blueberries... "

 

"Oh fuck, John! You’re disgusting." Paul said disgruntled and then closed his eyes, "Anyway… thank you."

 

"Mm..." John murmured, "Always ready to nauseate my travel companions."

 

And then he closed his eyes, abandoning his head backwards.

 

He went back to run his hand absently in Paul's hair and after a few moments, he noticed that the boy had fallen asleep. Better that way. He really didn’t want Paul to feel sick: it was their trip, their great escape from Liverpool, they both should have been good to enjoy every moment of that exciting new experience.

 

John looked up at the sky with small, white clouds floating over him and chasing each other on that bright blue field. He sighed, passing his tongue to wethis lips: the sea wind was making them dry and he noticed a familiar taste in his mouth. A fresh, intense, bitter taste and then sweet, fruity, tremendously familiar. Just like the drink that Paul had prepared for him during the short holiday they spent together, just a year before.

 

The same intense taste of that first shared adventure, the same euphoria as they had played for a couple of people, without being discouraged by the indifferent audience... They seemed to be on the verge of another great emotion, that was just waiting for them. It waited for them with its difficulties, its surprises, its joys.

 

John smiled at anything beyond the Channel.

 

They were coming. They were ready.

 

Ready for anything.

 

 

 

_( 1)- Caversham is a district of Reading city, Berkshire, near London._

_( 2)- Other infos about the Nerk Twins and their stay in Caversham here: _http://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz/article-1078752/Meet-The-Nerk-Twins--John-Paul-called-gig-double-act--8211-drinkers-sleepy-Berkshire-pub.html

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What are those two ready for? We'll see it in the next chapters.   
> Anyway, I couldn't write something about the Nerk Twins. It's great imaging them perform together, just the two of them.   
> I really hope you like it. And I want to thank my betareader sherlocked221 and whydontwedoitontheinternet for her support.   
> And thanks to everyone who read and leave a comment. :3  
> Next chapter, Keep your eyes open, will arrive next week.


	5. Keep your eyes open

When the ferry landed in Calais, Paul had never been so happy to set foot on the mainland, something solid that didn’t swing. Of course, even after the landing and all the boring and endless checks on customs, he still felt the waves of the sea and his shaking body, which is why John grabbed his waist and stopped his dangerous oscillations. Then he led him to the first pub they came across, right in front of the harbor. It was no surprise that most of the customers were British.

_Fucking Brits and their omnipresent mania!_

The pub was definitely very crowded. The tables were occupied, there was a brightly colored jukebox with yellow, red and blue neon lights, and a small dance floor where a dozen people were dancing to a French slow dance: John didn’t speak French, but he was almost sure that the woman of the song was singing about the love of her life that had betrayed her with a younger and nicer girl. And now she was meditating on suicide, by cutting her veins, maybe, more romantic and melodramatic. In a nutshell, a real fucking drag. However changing the musical tastes of French people wasn’t his most urgent aim. He had to get Paul on something firm, before he really threw up everything he had eaten that morning. Fortunately, they found a couple of free seats at the counter.

"How are you?" He asked, making sure that his friend didn’t swing.

Paul nodded with a slight movement of his head, and maybe he regretted it shortly afterwards, for he gave a hint of a grimace and brought a hand to his head.

"Good, pretty good... I guess."

"Do you feel like eating?" He asked, and he couldn’t hide his concern, "Maybe it'll make go away your sickness."

"Yeah, ok, but first let me just stay like this for a while. I’m still feeling on that bloody ferry. Do you mind waiting a few minutes or your stomach is about to grumble?"

"Well, actually, the sea air always makes me hungry, but that's fine, miss. Take all the time you want. "

"So..." Paul began, looking around curiously, "Do we know where we fucking are?"

His movements were still slow, but somehow encouraging.

"France." John exclaimed with a sardonic grin on his face.

In response Paul looked back at him with his "what did I do to fucking deserve all of this?" expression. And this only increased the pleasure that John felt when he was teasing Paul. It was so bloody easy and satisfying.

"Yeah, thank you, John. Which part of France are we?"

"The first pub I found." the young man replied, shrugging his shoulders with indifferent air, "We're still near the harbor anyway."

"Mm..." Paul murmured and wrinkled his nose with a slightly disgusted expression, "You can fucking smell it!"

John couldn’t help but smile for that loud and lively curse.

"So, you ok now, I see."

"More or less." Paul replied, "I'm realizing now I'm on the mainland and not on those bloody waves."

"Great. So we can order now, right? I'm starving." he complained excessively, as if he hadn’t been eating for days, when he just had devoured a couple of hamburgers on the ferry, under Paul's disgusted look.

"Hey, it doesn’t go away anytime." he protested warmly, "It takes time."

John just lifted an eyebrow with skepticism, realizing that Paul’s bright protest made it clear that his improvement was evident.

"Oh really? It seems to me that you’re already much better. You have also an acceptable skin tone back. Now instead of rotten green, you have rosy cheeks like a little pig."John grinned, giving him a pinch on his chubby cheek.

Paul, annoyed, shook his head to shake him off and then sighed: "Instead of being an asshole, you could do something to help me."

"Whatever you want. But we have to eat after, please." he burst, "What is it?"

"An Elvis song on the jukebox."

John snorted snobby and said, "Do you really think that they know Elvis here in France?"

"Sure, Elvis is fucking everywhere, John." Paul remarked, smiling.

John was pleased to see that smile. It confirmed that Paul felt much better now, because his face was illuminated with that smile and his rosy cheeks had also the dimples, an obvious sign of his good health.

"And should I go to pick you up a song or can you get up on your toes and do it?"

"I'll go, thank you, but you have to give me some shillings. I have none."

John nodded and then looked for a coin in his pocket to give it to Paul.

"Here."

"Thank you, Johnny." Paul said, winking at him.

John chuckled as Paul walked away, and finally (finally!) he ordered a couple of hamburgers and two beers for the two of them.

"You British?" He suddenly was asked by a voice beside him, with a strong French accent.

John turned and saw a little man: he was shorter than John but way larger. It was very likely that he was twice his age. He had to be a kind of dock worker. He was wearing a checked flannel shirt, a bit worn out, with his sleeves wrapped around his elbows. On his head he wore a lead-grey flat hat from which grizzled curls sprouted. His face was rounded, with olive-colored skin and a short, shaggy beard. The small, watery eyes and his beery breath revealed that the man was clearly drunk. He sat at the counter like John and stared at him with a grin on his face.

"Yup."

"You aren’t here to look for a job, are you?" he asked unconcerned, "Because I'm telling you, son, there’s none, not even for the French."

"No, we're just on holiday." John answered.

He didn’t like his polemic tone.

He was on holiday, on a fucking holiday! The last thing he wanted was becoming depressed because of French’s economic problems. He already had and continued to have his quite good dose of personal troubles.

The man nodded vaguely and drank the last drops of beer. Then he turned completely toward John, placing one arm on the counter.

"Is that your friend?" He asked, pointing at Paul, who was reading the titles of the songs on the jukebox.

John followed his indication, with a disgusted sneer for the strong smell of beer coming out the man's mouth: "What the fuck do you care?"

"Nothing." The man replied chuckling and shrugging, "It's just that he’s a bit weird, isn’t he?"

"Excuse me?"

"Could he be..." he began to say and made a vague gesture with his hand.

John looked at him, his face furrowed in confusion: "What?"

"Yeah, I mean, he isn’t a, you know..." he whispered, bending closer to John, "...a fag?"

When John’s mind violently worked out the meaning of that word, his eyes widened and his hands moved to grab the collar of his shirt.

"What the fuck are you saying? Try to repeat it if you have courage." He spat, threateningly.

The man laughed and pulled back, raising his hands.

"Hey, I was just wondering. You know, I'm not..." and suddenly lowered his voice, "…queer, but with that beautiful face of his, I think I’ll let the kid give me a wonderful blowj-"

He couldn’t finish the sentence because John had hit him with a right hook that dropped him to the ground. The boy didn’t even have time to realize what he was doing; he only noticed when the man hit the floor. The fact was that when he heard the insults towards his best friend, John didn’t get anything else. The anger blinded him and his fist sprang to clash with the jaw of the man who was saying shit about Paul. And now the man was trying to lift himself up, but John was on him again, moved by the fierce feeling that was devouring him and was fed by the images created by the small, disgusting little man. Paul, his best mate, with a man, an ordinary man. Impossible!

Voices around them became agitated. John couldn’t get what they were saying or shouting. All his senses were focused on his mission, which consisted in giving a lesson to that perfect asshole who dared to say certain things about Paul. His touch felt only the rough skin of the other man's face. His view was almost blinded; all around him was blurred; only the man in his hands was focused. His nose smelled smoke and alcohol, a mix that John knew very well and who led his shots. His tongue tasted the unmistakable metallic aroma of blood in his mouth, due to the fact that his opponent was beginning to rebel and hit John, helped by a couple of friends coming from somewhere in the pub. And his hearing picked indistinct sounds of overturned chairs and men shouting and cheering. Then someone, a familiar voice called him by name.

John!

What happened next surprised John. A moment of fatal distraction. Someone from behind hit him and he fell violently on the ground. Lying on the wooden floor, John was about to undergo the attack of the new opponent, but two strong arms pulled him away and then grabbed John, forcing him to get up and run out of the pub.

As he ran, John regained the correct use of his senses. Suddenly he realized the pain scattered in different points of his face: the more intense was around his right eye and then his lip was bleeding; he also realized the road running under his feet, the cold of the evening, the moisture surrounding him and Paul. John didn’t quite know where they were going: he just followed Paul, looking every now and then to check if those fucking French men were following them. Thank goodness, they weren’t anywhere to be seen.

After what seemed centuries, they stopped. The two guys collapsed on the ground, against a wall, trying to catch their breath after the great effort.

"Well, John..." Paul said, his face flushed and sweaty and his chest panting.

John looked at him and his friend smiled.

"Welcome to France."

*****

_Paul didn’t know how that bloody story started._

_They were playing at Grosvenor Ballroom in Wallasey, that compared to Liverpool, was on the opposite shore of Mersey. ( 1) They, the Silver Beetles, were playing like many other times before. There was nothing special that foretold what was going to happen, they weren’t even singing unacceptable songs, otherwise, Elvis, Chuck Berry were always very appreciated._

_Paul only knew that the moment before people were all taken from their performance and after they were rushing off the stage, dragging behind all their tools. Maybe someone had bothered someone else, or maybe someone had looked someone else's girlfriend for too long. In fact, a colossal fight blew up from a small touch paper: punches and kicks flew here, there and everywhere. Men of all ages and sizes were pushed in any corner of the room, even towards the small stage reserved for the band. And when that happened, John didn’t hesitate for a moment before telling everyone that it was time to be off. How couldn’t agree?_

_In the blink of an eye they gave it all up and started to run as fast as they could before they got involved in some brawl or worse, before their precious instruments could be ruined because of some shove or flying kick. And that was the terrifying moment when Paul realized with horror that he had left his magnificent, expensive Elpico amplifier, the brand new one, just where they were playing earlier. Shit, he had saved months and months to buy it. It was his little treasure. He still remembered the great joy he had felt when he finally realized to have enough money to buy it, and how his hands trembled when the shopkeeper packed the precious instrument. Paul only feared to lift that box, because his trembling hands could make it slipping and ruin, as a result, his new, important purchase. If it had happened, it would have broken his heart. But luckily there was John with him and he had helped him take it home. For this reason he couldn’t simply abandon it that way, in the middle of a brawl. There was nothing more dangerous than drunk men and troublemaker for a poor, helpless amplifier._

_‘Shit!' was the only thing he could think of, before going back and trying to get back to the stage._

_He went into the crowd with difficulty, zigzagging between the lads who were giving each other a good hiding. From the screams that came from the hall and stunned him, Paul understood that this was a revenge between neighborhoods of the same city. Fucking fantastic, things got complicated and risky when it came to this sort of conflict!_

_The stage was a few metres away, a dozen steps and he would reachit. He had to be careful, it seemed that the most belligerent guys were all grouped together near the stage._

_Shit, shit, shit!_

_Paul tried to stay as far away from the row as he could. He didn’t want to be mistaken for one who belonged to one or the other group. He was about to jump on the stage when he miraculously managed to avoid a deadly right fist. He had seen it coming out of the corner of his eye and immediately he had stepped back. But the other lad clutched him by his shoulders and pushed him against the wall, nailing him with all his weight._

_"Don’t move." he intimated, his voice threatening and clearly drunk, "Or you're bloody dead!" ( 2)_

_A shiver went through Paul, a shiver of fear. The guy, who looked smaller than he was, but who was very aggressive for his young age, had a knife in his hand and Paul could see that he was handling it quite well, too good in his opinion. He didn’t dare imagine what he could do with that small but extremely dangerous weapon in his hand. And most of all he didn’t want to imagine what he could do to him._

_"Are you one of those, right?" He asked, approaching the sharp blade to Paul’s cheek._

_Paul held his breath. With all the fucking places where they could play, did they have inevitably go right there? Bloody John and his-_

_"Hey!" A voice suddenly came from behind, surprising both Paul and his aggressor._

_What happened next was that the boy was k.o. with a well-placed punch by a young man who just turned out to be..._

_"John?" Paul shout, somehow finding the breath he had lost when all that story began._

_He was safe, maybe... No, it had to be so. He was safe now that John was with him and nothing bad would happen to him. There was never anything unpleasant with John around._

_"Paul? Are you fucking crazy? What the hell are you doing here?" John asked, his expression extremely worried._

_"I just wanted to save the amplifier." He answered, feeling ashamed under John's worried look._

_"And couldn’t you ask me to help you? It’s fucking crazy here. Please, tell me, what was your fantastic plan? Come here, take the amplifier and sneak away, passing unnoticed between those assholes?"_

_Paul blushed, realizing that in fact his plan had some weak points: "Well, sort of, I suppose."_

_"For fuck’s sake, Paul. How bloody stupid are you? How many times do I have to tell you to avoid this shit? You’re really the last person on earth to be able to pass in the midst of such a mess."_

_Paul pouted: he really didn’t like John when he considered him weak as a sissy. He wasn’t fucking weak. He wasn’t at all, damn it! Maybe he wasn’t as physically strong as John, but he could be just as clever as he was, and he knew how to place a couple of punches when he wanted._

_"I had almost done it." he protested faintly, “I had everything under control.”_

_However, he knew that John was just worried, because he care about him somehow in a way he never showed openly, but he really did. Paul knew that, Paul was certain of that and he was grateful to him._

_"Yeah, right, in your fucking dreams." John muttered, grabbing him by the arm, "Let's go and remember what I always tell you."_

_"What is it?"_

_John pointed two fingers in his eyes: "Keep your eyes open, Paul, always."_

*****

"Ah, fuck, Paul!"

Paul laughed, "For God’s sake, John, I didn’t think you were such a wimp!"

After escaping from the pub where John had been involved... no, where John had caused that rift, Paul managed to convince his friend to let him take care of his face, which now reported a black eye and a bloody lip. Paul would never have thought that John was one who complained so melodramatically. John, who always act like a tough guy, with that cockiness that in Paul's eyes seemed like a mask that didn’t suit him at all, that John didn’t want, and that he took off only in Paul’s presence. The latter giggled as he dried the blood on his lip with a clean handkerchief.

Just outside the pub he dragged John to the nearest fountain along the Calais waterfront, and had him sit on a bench. This time Paul heard no reason and managed to persuade him to undergo his care (for purely aesthetic reasons, of course, "Do you want to take photos with that black eye on during the trip, John?" "Never ever!").

"It fucking hurts, bloody hell!" John cursed again, standing on the bench.

Paul couldn’t really stop laughing and took advantage to tease John, a little pleasure he was rarely allowed to, because of his friend's touchiness: "What a fuss for nothing, you're really a little girl, John!"

John frowned and grabbed his wrist while his friend was nursing his lip with a handkerchief wetted with cold water.

"Hey, don’t make me regret to have defended you with that pig before."

Paul smiled, suddenly showing a greater interest in the trouble he had been gotten involved in.

"And why, dear Johnny? What did he say or do to make you so fucking angry?"

John quickly looked away: "You don’t really want to know."

"I want to, because he no longer has the power to hurt me." Paul said calmly, "You ehm... so to speak, leathered him before the situation degenerated and I was forced to save your nice bum. "

"I had everything under control." John replied snobby.

"Oh, yeah, all of this is because you had everything under control." Paul snorted, pointing to John's face, "A simple thank you will be enough, John, and now, please, tell me."

"No, it would ruin our holiday."

Paul laughed: "Come on, John, don’t play the man of mystery. You’re just making me curious. And if I get more curious, I’ll become even more insistent. And more insistent for you means more annoying and all-"

"Okay, I got it. You daft." John said, raising his hands as a sign of resignation, "Just shut that fuckin' mouth of yours."

Paul chuckled, proud of himself, and washed his handkerchief before sitting next to John, "Well?"

"Well, that asshole made comments about you." John replied, the voice disturbed by the fierce feeling that was relighting in him.

"Yeah, I got that. What did he say?" Paul asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

John looked at his hands tormenting each other on his lap and after a long minute he lifted his head to lock eyes with Paul.

"Can’t you imagine it?"

The smile on Paul's lips faded and took as light, disagreeable shade: "I think I can."

"But don’t worry." John add in a hurry, "I should have clarified that he mustn’t dare make any more of those insinuations about you."

"I suppose so." Paul sighed, shrugging, "Thank you, John, but I don’t think it can be of any use."

"Why?"

"Because if he isn’t to say those things, someone else will do it."

"Well, then, we'll take care of him."

"And why should we do that, John?"

"What does that mean? Because nobody isn’t allowed to tell those things about you."

"And do you believe I really care about something some strangers think about me?"

John was caught off-guard and stared at him totally astonished. He had plunged into that fight to defend his friend’s honor, and now Paul told him he practically didn’t care much about it. He followed his friend with his eyes when he got up, slipping his hands in his pocket and staring at the ground.

"They don’t know me, John, and most likely I’ll never see them again." he said, kicking a pebble that bounced a couple of times on the road, "It's not as if me best friend said those things, right?"

Paul turned and smiled at him. John couldn’t believe it. He would expect everything from him, apart for this reaction. Paul should have been angry, slagging off the man who dared to think those things, and then he should have decided to go back to the pub to beat him black and blue by himself, but John would have stopped him and would have pointed him out who had already gave him a good lesson. And at that point, Paul would have smiled and thanked him.

But no, Paul had done nothing of that, apart from addressing that sad, resigned smile. And so, John found himself asking why he had done all of that, why he had taken this to heart. Just because it was Paul? Yeah, okay, Paul was his best friend and for him he would do anything. However, there was something that made him react violently, releasing all his fury on the man on the floor, something that became upset if his mind formed the images that had been suggested to him, something that was still roaring now in him, as he watched Paul fiddling with the pebbles on the ground, kicking them slightly beneath that street lamp that illuminated them with his dim light. It was like a sense of protection, a tender feeling that was able to pull out the worst and best of John. Maybe he was crazy, yes, he was definitely going crazy. Since when did he start thinking about something he had done for Paul?

"Sometimes, Paul, I just can’t understand you."

Paul chuckled, the sad melancholy on his face was suddenly gone: "Wow, do you mean that after all these years I still surprise you?! It’s fucking fantastic. I, Paul McCartney, who can still surprise John Lennon!"

"Just don’t get used to it, though." John said, standing up, "Now let’s look for somewhere to stay the night. I have no intention of sleeping under a bridge."

In fact, John feared that Paul would still surprised him in the future and had no idea how to feel about it. He was exalted and scared at the same time, curious but also indifferent. There were so many feelings in him that he just didn’t know which one to give way to.

  
"We can always go back to that pub..." Paul suggested, giggling.

 "No, thanks." John laughed, beginning to walk next to him on the waterfront, "Rather, keep your eyes open, you daft."

"What for?"

"For a better place, of course."

John decided that he would keep his eyes open too, so as not to be surprised by that particular lad who was in that journey with him.

 

_( 1) The following is a real fact, happened to the Beatles. You can read more here: <https://www.beatlesbible.com/1960/07/23/live-grosvenor-ballroom-wallasey-9/>_

_( 2) Paul’s quote._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 5 online. Yeah!   
> This was really difficult to write, I'm not good in writing fight.   
> However that was a real fact happened to the Beatles. How hard is the life of rockers!  
> Thank you very much for all the kudos and the lovely words. And thanks to sherlocked221 and whydontwedoitontheinternet!   
> Next chapter will be "Nostalgia is..." and will be online next week.   
> Bye :3


	6. Nostalgia is...

 

_The first night in Hamburg wasn’t exactly what John had expected. He didn’t really know what to expect, it was all so new to him. But of course not this!_

_They had only arrived a few hours earlier with their van after a long journey. They left Liverpool excited and impatient, and crossed the Channel, then Belgium and finally came to Hamburg that evening, too tired to notice the city’s nightlife with its neon lights and the clubs where there was live music, the fucking rock 'n roll they had always dreamed of. Now they could finally play it, like a real band, like professionals._

_They immediately met who had hired them, the owner of the club where they would play for the following months, a guy named Bruno Koschmider ( 1). He was a man in his forties, short, stocky, with a square face, sunken eyes, a limping leg... in conclusion, he wasn’t exactly the kind of man John thought he ought to have dealings with. He was expecting someone with a more encouraging smile, the jovial expression, friendly, in few words, someone like Elvis's manager (2). Instead Bruno, Bruno... There was something in him that made everyone uncomfortable and John hated feeling uncomfortable. He hated not to know how to behave, he hated to be afraid of what he didn’t know, because it was totally useless to fear the unknown and face it with the fear of not knowing what would happen. It wouldn’t have made the future safer. Most likely it would only get worse. And John was a complete idiot to feel that way._

_Their boss had taken them to the place where they would play, a place called "Indra Club", a very exotic name. Indeed, John would like it. And then he had informed them that they would sleep nearby, in the back of a movie called "Bambi Kino". However, for that night only they would have been guests at Mr Koschmider's house, as their accommodation wasn’t ready yet. The problem was that there was only one double bed and ~~five~~ four tall and sturdy lads. The one that wasn’t within the "sturdy" category was George, of course. John chuckled at the thought. George wasn’t sturdy, he wasn’t at all; he wasn’t even thin. You could see George just because he was dressed, otherwise he seemed almost transparent because he was skin and bones. Thank goodness he ate as much as they did, like a normal seventeen years old lad, who still needed nutrients to grow up._

_So now John found himself in a bed together with the four lads he had just started that German adventure with. They were crushed like sardines, John standing on the edge of the bed. If someone moved or kicked, because of some disturbing nightmare, the poor boy would fall to the ground. Nevertheless, he couldn’t really complain. After all they had a blanket and a mattress to lie on and they were sleeping side by side. He remembered when they were forced to sleep in their small van, Stuart in the mudguard and all of them lying on top of each other to warm up during the Scottish tour ( 3). Absurd situations, really, and in comparison to that, this accommodation was almost like a king. Privileged, that's what they were!_

_Too bad that the insomnia was always the same, at least for him. Everyone else was snoring blissfully, each of them with different rhythms and tonalities, making falling asleep even harder. What the fuck did he do to deserve this kind of torture?_

_He sighed out loud, pushing his head against the pillow, and suddenly he felt a small movement coming from the body behind him, whose warm back was crushed against his. John blinked, puzzled, wondering if even his mate couldn’t sleep, just like he did. Moving cautiously, trying not to end up on the ground for his own hand, John turned back and found himself in front of a_ _dishevelled_ _mass of black hair._

_"Paul?" He called under his breath._

_No reply from Paul's body, but John smiled at himself as he knew that his friend was awake. He had felt the small movements of his legs, his arms, the little sighs he'd run out from his mouth and now he desperately wanted to know what was keeping him awake._

_For this reason he shook Paul lightly by the shoulder: "Paul? Paul, I know you're awake. What's the matter with you?"_

_"None of your business." the young man muttered, curling up._

_"Oh, come on. I can’t sleep either and since we both have the same problem, can we try to solve it together, mh?"_

_Again, Paul's answer was dry and blunt: "No!"_

_"Why?" He asked, pouted, leaning his chin on his friend's shoulder._

_Paul turned his head briefly to look into his eyes, pausing for a moment, then apathetically stared at George's hair: "Because you’ll make a fool of me."_

_"Who? Me?"John said bemused,"My dear Paul, please, you are talking about me! I could never make a fool of you-”_

_Paul turned back and this time he stared at him with an obvious blaming expression. John giggled._

_"All right, I'll admit it. Maybe sometimes it could have…"_

_"Sometimes?" Paul repeated incredulously and indignantly, shaking him off, "Sometimes he says!"_

_"But..." John continued, ignoring his friend, "I swear, I fucking swear I won’t do this again."_

_And he made a cross on his heart with solemn look. Paul wasn’t bewitched by his melodramatic methods though. They were so exaggerated that no one, no one could be duped, let alone someone like Paul who had now realized who he was dealing with._

_"Yes, you will."_

_"No, it isn’t true."_

_"I'm telling you, yes."_

_"Come on, Paul!" John urged him with a little push on his shoulder, "Trust me for once in your life, how much would it cost you?"_

_"I always trusted you, but you always jerk me around." Paul paused, crossing his arms._

_"Then trust me once more, you won’t regret it, I promise." John suggested, winking._

_Paul's lips tightened in a doubtful expression before sighing resigned and rolling his eyes. Now he would have given up to John's request and eventually he would bitterly regret it. Fuck John and his insomnia too! Why couldn’t John just sleep like everyone else and leave Paul alone, unable to sleep?_

_"But John, I swear..." Paul began, turning slowly to him, "If you tease me, I'll be back to Liverpool tomorrow and leave you in trouble."_

_John raised his eyebrows, impressed by his warning: "Who says you leave me in trouble?"_

_The sharp look that Paul offered to him was all he needed to silence him once and for all._

_"All right, I got it." He said, giggling, and rose to point an elbow on the pillow and lay his head on his hand, "So, come on, why can’t you sleep?"_

_Paul bit his lip: he was still afraid to confess and John didn’t understand why. He tried to give him an encouraging smile and he wanted him to read his mind, because his only thought at the time was "trust me"._

_At last Paul did it. He trusted him and his smile, or perhaps he had really read his fucking mind and John immediately felt stupid: sometimes, actually often, he tended to overestimate Paul, giving him prodigious powers and certainly impossible. And when it happened, John was puzzled, as if that thought couldn’t have been conceived by his mind. Perhaps because he had never thought he could highly esteemed one of his friends._

_"I miss Liverpool."_

_But Paul wasn’t just "one of his friends". Paul was the best friend he ever had, and John felt that maybe he could even tell him sooner or later._

_One day... who knows._

_"Mh, I see." he whispered, getting rid of his corny thoughts, "It's nostalgia."_

_"And?"_

_John blinked, puzzled, "And what?"_

_"And you don’t have to say anything to me, for example, 'Paul, how fucking sissy you are because you miss your home?' Or, 'Be a man and just think about how much we'll have fun in Hamburg'."_

_"No, I won’t say you anything like that and not because I promised you. I wouldn’t do it anyway because it’s normal, missing home, I mean. This is the first time we are in a foreign country and we will stay here for, I don’t know, fucking months. Everyone could feel nostalgic in this situation, even Almighty Paul McCartney."_

_"So you don’t think I’m a wimp?" He asked, looking at him with a kind of anxiety dancing on his face, in his eyes, in the way his fingers grabbed the sheet._

_Here it is, once more, Paul's fear, which in some ways had always to do with how important was John’s opinion for him. Woe if John had thought such things about Paul. This would have caused atrocious catastrophes comparable only to the most memorable historical tragedies: for example, John couldn’t trust him anymore, could have pushed him forever, or preferred fucking Stuart. God, save us!_

_"Of course I don’t, you twat." John said laughing and took Paul’s nose with two fingers, "I even can’t believe I’m saying this sort of shit, but you have a very warm heart. Unlike me, you aren’t afraid to show your feelings, whatever they are."_

_"Sometimes I think I don’t want to be this way."_

_"Why?"_

_"Because I can’t control them, all these feelings, I can’t stand it. Especially missing home. I can’t do this, since Mom's dead, I feel guilty leaving Dad and Mike alone. Nostalgia is too painful."_

_John knew what Paul felt, and sometimes he felt guilty leaving home for so long, leaving home and those few loved ones whom he still had, Cynthia and Mimi, of course, because after all she had raisedhim and had dealt with him lovingly, as no other had ever done for John._

_In his first journeys, John was disturbed by that nostalgic feeling, because like Paul, he feared to be weak and John Lennon couldn’t allow it. He couldn’t feel the same feeling of typical hopeless romantics or, worse, older people, he wasn’t twenty years yet. But in the end John was convinced that it wasn’t something that could have made him vulnerable. Otherwise it was something that could also give strength in moments of discouragement, because it meant that somewhere in this absurd and cruel world there was a place where he was fine, where his life was easier and the problems were also less complicated than they really were. Somewhere there were people worried about him, waiting for him, with open arms and with the brightest smile on their faces. And this, for John, was something extremely important._

_"Paul, I don’t think your mother would like you to feel that way, she would just want the best for you and the best for you is this fucking band. What you feel, nostalgia, is inevitable because you have your family, your house, your girlfriend. You belong to all those things. And missing them should make you feel happy for this reason, make you feel desired or precious. It isn’t weakness, it is belonging to something or someone. It's understandable to feel that way and nobody can make a fool of you just for that." he said confidently and gave him a small squeeze on his arm._

_Paul smiled softly, and then John made something stupid, a terribly sentimental thing. Fucking pathetic!_

_His hand loosened his grip on Paul's arm and then stroked him briefly in a gesture that just wanted to comfort him as John told him the prissiest words he had ever said: "And do not forget that a part of you belongs to me, so missing home will be more bearable. I’ll help you with that."_

_But John knew that there was no lying in those words, which was probably the sincerest speech that came out of his head and that was fine. Or maybe not? Was it okay to share so much with Paul? Was it right that Paul was the one to see the real part of John?_

_John cleared his throat: surely, he couldn’t think about it with Paul looking at him with that silly smile on his lips and his pleasantly surprised stare._

_"In fact, when you want..." he added hurrily, "I’ll give you permission to sniff me, just to feel a bit of the shitty smell of Liverpool; but maybe, just wait until I’ve become all sweaty, so you're sure to smell the unmistakable stink of the harbor. Nothing better to feel at home."_

_Paul burst out laughing and John had to hush him with his hand on his mouth._

_"Shush, do you want to wake everybody up?"_

_Paul shook his head and John removed his hand._

_"You better now?"_

_"Yes, thank you, John."_

_"So now, sleep, because tomorrow we’re finally going to play, and I need you to be in your best condition, otherwise I'm the one who’ll leave you in fucking shit."_

_"How scary!" Paul chuckled and closed his eyes, "Goodnight, Johnny."_

_"Goodnight." he said, then looked at him for a while, noticing how his breath began to become slow and heavy, an obvious sign that Paul slipped into the world of dreams._

_Suddenly, John himself felt sleepy, and if he had closed his eyes, he would have fallen asleep. Perhaps his insomnia was due to distress from being far away from home, and maybe talking to Paul had helped him realize the problem, face and solve it. Now, this new adventure seemed more bearable, brighter, more encouraging._

_Perhaps talking with Paul had been useful to John more than to his mate and realizing this, John closed his eyes and sighed._

_Five minutes later in the bedroom a fifth Beatle was snoring: John._

***

The really amazing thing about a trip was to look up to the sky. Especially the starry sky. Paul was appreciating it that night.

He was watching the sky above them as they were on their way to Paris. He and John had hitchhiked from Calais and after a couple of days, several changes and even a train had finally found someone who would bring them to the French capital city. Once there, they would arrange differently.

The good Samaritan who had picked them up was a French truck driver, his kind face showed a nice pair of bushy moustache with curly tips, his cheeks flushed and his eyes wide and expressive. The man was driving a small lorry and there wasn’t enough space for them in the cabin. So, they decided to settle in the open cargo compartment. Perhaps it wouldn’t have been the utmost comfort, but at least John and Paul could talk, which would have been impossible in the cabin due to the embarrassing silence that would inevitably dropped by being with someone who didn’t understand their language. And talking to each other, excluding their kind friend,would certainly have been rude.

Pity that once left, John had fallen asleep, becoming a very boring travel companion. Paul was sitting beside him, his back leaning against the cargo compartment wall, and when his head fell backwards, his lips stirred in a smile.

It was stunning how everything around him changed when he was travelling and he could say he had travelled quite a lot. Yet the night sky and the stars were always the same. Wherever he went, he saw new places, new colors, new people, but in the evenings he just had to look up and there it was, the same scene he saw every night from his bedroom’s window at Forthlin Road before going to sleep. The same enchanting view that allowed him to be less nostalgic, to feel a bit more at home even thousands miles away from Liverpool.

At that moment John's head dangled and leaned over Paul's shoulder and he tried to hold back a laugh.

Even when John was sleeping, he could find the way to claim what was his.

Alright, yes, it was also John’s credit if Paul could bear the homesickness, if in every trip it became less distressing, less cumbersome in his chest. It was mainly his credit. John hung around his home so often that his hair, his clothes, his skin were now soaked with the smells of McCartney's home: Paul's clean bed sheet’s soap, the Typhoo tea when he and John smoked it with his father’s pipe, the scrambled eggs in the morning... All so strong that it was enough for Paul to close his eyes and approach his nose to his friend's hair to feel right at home, imagining himself in the living room with his father on the armchair reading the newspaper and Mike studying upstairs.

In each trip, nostalgia decreased more and more just because he was with John and John meant everything for Paul, primarily his home. He was equally comfortable and quiet, sometimes too suffocating, but he was home. And he was so incredible that the only nostalgia that Paul could feel now was for John. He missed him when he wasn’t with Paul and he missed him even more when he was with him.

Because, as John told him, nostalgia meant belonging to someone and Paul belonged to John.

 

_( 1) Some infos about the first night in Hamburg were taken from here: https://www.beatlesbible.com/1960/08/17/live-indra-club-hamburg/_

_( 2) Elvis’s manager was colonel Tom Parker._

_( 3) Infos from the Anthology._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, this was a little slow, but it was necessary because of the next one.   
> I really hope you like it. And thank you very much for the kudos. :3  
> Thank you to my beta sherlock221 and to lovely whydontwedoitontheinternet for her wonderful, amazing and every other positive adjectives drawings about this little fic.   
> Next chapter, The green fairy, will be a little weird... ;)  
> Bye bye


	7. The green fairy

Paris was amazing.

Paris was wonderful.

Paris was love, music, life... everything!

But Paris was also a mere stop on their journey. A quick, fast stop. Hit and run.

When they arrived in Paris early in the afternoon, they had been left in an unknown spot in some neighborhood of the city. Their kind driver had simply told them _"Opéra"_ in his own language. John was about to say no, they had no intention of going to the Opera, but the man had gone on his way, abandoning the two boys to themselves.

"Well, at least we're in Paris." Paul said, smiling.

And with his optimism, John couldn’t but join his smile and nod: "Yes, we are in _Paris_ finally."

After a refreshing snack, based on a fresh juice and a scented marmalade crepes, the two lads decided to spend at least one night in the French capital. Once they were in Paris, they could also take a look around. It would have been a shame to let go this opportunity.

One night in the small hotel, John said, and then the next day they would resume their trip to Spain. One night to rest their aching back after the uncomfortable nap on the truck. Paul could only agree.

They realized that not speaking French was really a problem, because locals didn’t seem to try to figure out their gestures and language, which was an awkward hybrid between English and French. In fact, they pouted or curled their lips and then walked away with their nose up in the air.

_Fuck the French too!_

Finally they decided to rely on their instinct that was never wrong. Maybe. Paul took the reins of the situation and began to walk along a narrow street lined with buildings of a pale color, a kind of ivory, which made the alley incredibly characteristic and fascinating. At one point they reached a stairway, divided by a railing, alternating with vintage lamps, finely decorated at the top. To John's horror, Paul started climbing the stairs.

"Excuse me, sir? May I ask you what you’re doing?"

Paul stopped with a foot in the air and turned around, "I want to see where this stairway leads."

"Maybe you didn’t notice it, because you’re a fucking daft, but it seems endless."

"Are you afraid to be left breathless, John? Against me, two years younger than you?"Paul asked, mischievous, with a challenging smile.

John looked up to heaven. That little lad always knew how to have all he wanted! And now he hit his weak point, his constant competition with Paul.

"Alright then. Here we go!" He exclaimed, beginning to climb.

At first it was fun to climb up and admire the surroundings and the trees lining the stairs, trees that had already worn the warm autumn colors. However, after a while, it became tiring. Draining. _Exhausting_! The stairs were endless and they began to pant and hold much of their weight to the handrail, all sweaty and forceless.

"I didn’t... I didn’t think... that ex... existed... _oh_! A stairway... to Heaven..." John tried to say, turning bothered to stare at Paul.

But the latter gave a hint of an amused smile among the pants.

"And... that... of all... the cities... it was... right... in Paris..."

John burst out laughing and cursing Paul, because he didn’t have enough breath for this, which made the entire challenge very difficult.

Perhaps at the top there really was Paradise, because the end of the infinite stairway was the most heavenly vision the two guys had ever seen. And when they reached it, the first thing they did was to rest their exhausted limbs on the first bench they found. They remained silent, trying to catch their breath, careless of anything that wasn’t their need of air.

When the conditions of the two patients improved, they began to look around to figure out...

"Where the fuck are we?" John asked.

"Dunno." Paul replied, looking around himself, "Though we know for sure that there’s a breathtaking view from here."

So Paul rose and ran to the belvedere from where he could admire the entire city of Paris, extending beneath them.

John followed him immediately. The landscape really threatened to take away the breath he had just recovered. You could see the palaces with people looking out the windows, the wide green areas, the magnificence of the most characteristic monuments of Paris, all kissed by the gilded and warm afternoon light. And that postcard really said to them, "Welcome to Paris, foreigners."

Paul took the camera right away and took a couple of photos. John, interested, looked at him while he was focusing and then clicking the button: his profile was caressed by the same sun caressing Paris, making him stunning as well.

"Want me to take a photo, John?" he asked, suddenly shaking him from his thoughts.

"No fucking way!" he mumbled and shook his head energetically to send away those thoughts as soon as possible, because... what the fuck was he thinking? About Paul moreover? Maybe he had left, or lost his head halfway on the stairs. Or maybe all that panting had burned his rational part, leaving intact the most dangerous one that John himself was struggling to keep hold of.

 "What about if we try to figure out where we are?" He asked, forcing himself to recover somehow. In any fucking way!

Paul put the camera back in his case: "Gear."

They looked around a bit, until they saw a small white sign on which the indication for "Sacre Coeur de Paris, Montmartre" was reported.

_Montmartre_? Were they really in Montmartre, the artist's neighborhood? Them, who were artists as well!

"Well, that’s a coincidence, huh, Paul?" John said, incredulously.

"Or just fate."

Enthusiastic about their discovery, they decided to go for a wander in the neighborhood, stopping every now and then to look at street artists playing or improvising a small play, involving the tourists. However, what they were really trying to find, what was normal for two young lads to look for in Montmartre was the Moulin Rouge. There should have been more indications to find it, and the Moulin Rouge itself should have emitted lights and sounds to summon tourists, but no, there was nothing. Montmartre’s little alleys were so narrow and numerous, they intersected each other, bringing the two lads back to the same places, and soon they got tired and all they wanted now was a place where eat and rest.

Fucking Moulin Rouge!

So, when the evening started to descend upon them, they found a small guesthouse to stay overnight. Not so far from there, at the corner of the street, there was a very lit, very crowded bistro, therefore very promising. John looked at the sign and wrinkled his nose. He didn’t speak French, that was sure, but he was certain that the name of the restaurant should be pronounced pompously and snobby.

_Au Rendez-vous des Amis._

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"What?" Paul asked.

"That." he replied, pointing the sign.

"Ah!" his friend exclaimed, following John's suggestion, "It looks like a very nice name.”

“Nice?”

“Yeah, I think it’s pretty cozy, you know. I say we can trust it."

Paul stepped in, making a sign of following him, and John shrugged.

"If you say so…"

They walked in and had a look around, looking for a table or just two chairs. The room was illuminated by chandeliers, the furniture was made of mahogany wood and all around them there were French of any genre and age. Most seemed to be artists, perhaps poets, painters, musicians, and John's eye was able to notice some birds who surely worked at the Moulin Rouge: they had some confidence in their eyes that almost resulted into the insolence, the indispensable quality of such work. He was captured by one girl in particular with long blond curly hair, red lips like fire in contrast to eyes cold as ice. She had a spectacular body, adorned with a simple bright green dress, and it was all curvy, like Brigitte Bardot. And God only knew how much John went mad for that woman. In other circumstances, he would have dashed to her, but she was surrounded by a large number of guys, all of them ready to offer her a cigarette if she wanted to smoke or a glass of champagne if she just wanted to wet her lips. It would have been a very dangerous situation and John didn’t really want to end up in another fight. He had been in France for three days, and had already been recognized as a fucking British troublemaker.

The girl, though, turned to look at them and John blinked. Pity that she looked at Paul, who, unaware about the knockout that had just put her eyes on him, was looking for a free table, and when he found it, he nudged John, pointing at a corner of the room. John was pleased to follow him and to divert his attention from the bird.

They sat down and decided that as tourists, it would have been very appropriate, not to say obligatory, to order immediately (with a waiter who, being the good guy he was, had studied English!) baguettes stuffed with French cheeses and pâté, along with a couple of beers. As they waited, they smoked a cigarette, giving their contribution to the slight mist hanging over the room.

"Lots of fascinating people here, huh?" Paul said.

He was so excited that couldn’t quite stay still: he kept turning his head on one side and the other to look at everything around them.

"What were you expecting? We're near the Moulin Rouge, I guess, if they didn’t move it before our arrival."

"We could go later, I mean, looking for it."

"The Moulin Rouge? No, thank you, it put me off. And anyway I can’t get in there, I would risk an heart attack at the tender age of almost twenty-one years."

Paul chuckled, lowering his gaze, and gave a small tap to the cigarette to drop the ashes into the ashtray.

"Yes, of course. Too many legs on display."

John nodded and glanced slightly over Paul's shoulder to notice that the blonde girl had moved close and was only a couple of tables away now, but her eyes were still fixed on Paul. He wondered if he should have warned Paul. A true friend would do it, so Paul would have a hit-and-run in paradise that night. And then he would have acted as a true friend too, and would put John in a good word. It was impossible for someone to say no to John Lennon, or worse, that they preferred Paul to him. It was his eyes’ fault, by now John had got it. The lad had two eyes so that every look was a delicate and lascivious caress. John's eyes, on the other hand, weren’t exciting as well; they were more direct and most of the times scary.

Obviously, this girl had been fascinated by Paul's gaze too.

For the duration of their baguette and the two beers needed to send it down, John continued to stare every now and then at the blonde girl a few feet away from them. She was chatting quietly with her companions, but never failed to give fleeting glances in their direction.

"The baguette, the baguette... the baguette sucks, shit!" John complained, with a disgusted grimace on his face.

"Come on, it's not that bad."

"You're joking, right? I'd rather eat a thousand of your sandwiches."John said giggling.

"Bullshit, you’re joking…"

“No way. I’m dead serious.”

Paul looked at him, while involuntary redness was blooming on his cheeks, "You must be really desperate then."

"Yeah, desperate is the right word."

John noticed with pleasure that Paul blushed, and it was all John’s fault. For a moment he found the situation extremely delightful. But then again, he cursed himself in his mind: he was fucking pathetic because of those thoughts, and he was now sure that the awful pâté  was making him sick somehow. Maybe he was intolerant, because now that he was thinking about it, he had never eaten the true, French pâté of goose liver. So it was likely that he could be allergic to it.

Then the waiter, a holy man who saved John from his perverse and catastrophic thoughts, approached their table with a tray in his hand and laid a small bottle of green liquid along with two shots, teaspoons, sugar and a nice jug of iced water.

"Hey, we didn’t order anything else." John told him.

"It is offered by a person who wants to remain anonymous."

"But..." Paul began to say, trying to call him back, but the waiter had already moved away.

John then began to analyze the bottle.

_Absinthe_.

Absinthe, aniseed distillate or... the green fairy!

John immediately looked at the girl who had been staring at Paul all the evening, the girl in the green dress, but she had suddenly disappeared. However he was sure the offer was from that bird. From that green fairy. And if there was one thing he knew for sure, it was that one should never trust the green fairy.

"Let's go."

Paul opened his eyes wide, "What, why?"

"Trust me." he said, getting up and grabbing the sleeve of Paul's jacket.

"Come on, John." Paul protested, getting rid of his grab, "Someone offered us absinthe. We won’t have such a similar occasion soon again, will we?"

That said, he poured out a generous dose of green liquid into the glass and threw it down in just one sip, before John could stop him. His face twisted in a grimace for the inevitable bitter taste. Then he shook his head and giggled.

"Wow, that's strong." he said and filled his own glass together with John's, "Come on, drink a little, you twat. Otherwise it would be very rude of you. What if who offered it is watching us... "

But John knew she wasn’t looking at them. Or at least not from a point where John could look at her. So he sighed uncertain.

"Okay, but don’t drink it that way, this stuff knocks you out immediately." John pointed out, remembering his previous, overwhelming, supernatural experience with absinthe.

He dissolved a couple of sugar cubes into the glasses with iced water through the perforated teaspoon and only after that, he drank the liquor that was fresh and sweet in an inebriating way.

They went on doing so for a while. John tried to get a hold of himself because one of them had to remain sober, and Paul let himself go and drank, claiming that, being the classic drink of artists and being artists themselves, they certainly had to drink it. As a result, Paul's cheeks soon became red and his eyes became clouded. But it was only when he began to laugh at anything he could see or say or do or think that John knew he was fucking drunk now. It was at that stage where everything seemed wonderful, everything was possible... And when his friend tried to pour out some absinthe again, John grabbed his wrist, holding him energetically.

"Paul, I'd say you're ok for now, don’t you think?"

Paul looked at him with an exaggerated disliked expression.

"I think you've never been so _boooooooooooring_."

"You're already dead drunk. Shall we bet you can’t even walk on your fucking legs?"

Paul twisted his lips: "No, I don’t bet with boring people."

"Hey, I'm just worried about you, idiot." John protested, heartfelt.

"Well, if I wanted... no, if I had wanted to travel with someone who was worried about me, I would have gone with my dad, not with you. At least, it would have been funnier."

John shook his head. Paul could be a fucking unbearable dickhead when he wanted... let alone when he was drunk.

_Go and worry about your friends, John, that's the reward._

"As you wish, then. I’ll go to the bathroom, try not to get into trouble."

"Like what?"

"Like disappearing."

****

_"Where's Paul?"_

_John couldn’t see him anywhere in the small local of Indra club. They played there only a few nights by now and were adapting with difficulty at those absurd rhythms. Playing all night, sleeping in the morning, and then drinking, drinking, and having fun with girls whom they didn’t even know the name._

_Not that he disliked all of this, for fuck’s sake!_

_No, the really hard thing was to keep up with all those wearing out rhythms and at the same time looking after his bandmates. Not that they needed a nanny, and no one had actually asked John to do so, but as a leader and founder of the group, John felt obliged to look after everyone else. Especially the little ones, George and Paul. Now George was there at the table with him, but Paul...not a fucking hint._

_They had stopped an hour ago in a local near Bambi Kino to drink something. Absinthe, Stuart had suggested._

_"It's the drink of artists, John, a classic."_

_And if Stuart said so, it must have been true. So they ordered a bottle and shared it._

_Of course it was strong and even awful. John had never felt so warm and off his head after a single shot. And he could hold his booze for sure. But now he was lightheaded and fuck!, how could he feel at the same moment invincible and helpless?_

_George called him back to reality: "I saw him going out with a bird."_

_John frowned._

_"That asshole! Couldn’t he at least warn? Too much effort for his stupid little brain?"_

_"Come on, John, it's not that bad."_

_"The fuck it’s not serious. He’ll pay for that." He muttered and stood up._

_Perhaps he did it too fast, because he was dizzy and had to lean on George's shoulder._

_"Hey, are you sure you can walk? You look like a bit-- "_

_"A bit what?" He growled at him._

_"A bit drunk."_

_"I'm fine, thank you. You've never really seen me drunk, Georgie!"_

_He gave him a punch on his shoulder and then walked off the local. Outside, John blinked to focus on the surrounding environment. The problem was that his blind eyes didn’t allow it. He could have squinted them as much as he wanted, but the vision wouldn’t change. It was clouded, blurred, indistinct... holy shit, he should have used his glasses, but perhaps he was really drunk as George said, because he couldn’t remember bringing them along and even if he had them with him, he didn’t remember in which pocket he had put them. So, he didn’t really want to look for them._

_"You know, John, you don’t really need those stupid glasses." someone said._

_The lad looked around, then up and down, but there was no one. The voice spoke again, though, after giggling cheerfully._

_"I'm behind you, silly boy."_

_John turned and his mouth fell open. A strange little thing fluttered in front of him; it was like a tiny girl, it couldn’t be bigger than his hand, with arms and legs as thin as toothpicks; her blond hair, full of bushes, fluttered gracefully in the air like the fringes of her bright green dress, which let exposed a good portion of skin. Damn it, if it was a natural size bird, he would shag her right away._

_"What the fuck are you? A goblin?"_

_"Goblins don’t exist, how can you think it? I'm the green fairy, John."_

_John laughed. Holy heavens, he must be dead drunk! His brain had melted and created that vision to cheat him and make fun of him. What normal person could be fooled by himself? However, John didn’t have time to fight his demons, and playing along was easier and seemingly even funny._

_"And tell me, fairy, how do you know my name?"_

_"I know all about you, from the moment you tasted me, your desires have become mine, your thoughts, your soul is mine... Even you are mine, John."_

_"Oh really?"_

_"Sure, for example, I know that now you’re looking for a single person, and if you really want to know, I can lead you to him. That's why you don’t need glasses, just follow me."_

_"And who says I should trust you?"_

_"You should trust me because I am your vision, love, if you don’t trust yourself, who can do it?"_

_Perplexed, John looked at her. Perhaps the little fairy was right and the desire he had about finding Paul now was too much to stay and ponder whether to follow the fairy or not._

_"Alright then. Show me."_

_The green fairy smiled at him, then fluttered around his head and began to lead him down the street illuminated by the neon lights of the night clubs. He should have gone crazy. He must have drunk too much and now he had strange visions. John shook his head trying to come back to his senses, but it was useless. The fairy was still in front of him, flying confident to her destination, leaving behind her a stinging and bitter fragrance, like the liquor he had drunk a few minutes before._

_The absinthe was leading him to Paul, on his shaky legs, making him ignore all the rest, those hotties selling their body for a few German marks and the transvestites who called him with their hot and deep voices, "Come on, come on my little_ schnudel pudel _." ( 1)_

_The weird little girl brought him to the Bambi Kino. The movie noises came to him as muffled sounds and didn’t bother him like other nights. Perhaps because all his senses were dazed and there was nothing that could come to him clearly. The green fairy made her way to their small apartments, stopping in front of the door and pointing it with a finger. John frowned and opened it, staggering inside. It was welcomed by strange verses and the darkness of their little apartment. But luckily there was his green fairy to light his way._

_John started to come in and almost stumbled into something that turned out to be Paul's jacket. He bent to pick it up and noticed there was a trail of clothes that led to Paul's room. Of course, that jerk had come there to enjoy a brand new bitch. He looked at the green fairy that was nodding, as if she had just read his mind. Now even the cries that echoed in the room were clearer: they were nothing more than groaning and moaning that the two guys were making as an unmistakable sign of the pleasure they gave to each other._

_Suddenly John realized he was very angry with Paul, even though he didn’t understand why. Did it make sense that he was angry with him to be gone that way, without telling him anything and all this for a stupid fuck?_

_"Of course it makes sense." the fairy replied, "Think if something happened to him. He’s a foolish English boy, who barely speaks German, and went into this rough district alone. You know what kind of people are hanging out at these places, right, John? You know there are certain faces you would avoid too. Think what they could do to an unwary lad like Paul."_

_Yeah, what could they do to him? Rob him and maybe beat him and leave him in the road, all bleeding. And what would happen if John didn’t find him? If none of them found him? Maybe he would die and then how would John cope without Paul? It was such an absurd, inconceivable, unbearable thought and John really didn’t know what to answer._

_He knew something for sure, though. He knew he had to prove to Paul how wrong his behaviour had been, how much John had been worried about him._

_The green fairy came in handy and pointed to the girl's clothes. John smiled. Of course! It would have been too predictable to hit Paul directly, while genial would be damaging the one who had caused Paul's bad behaviour. And John was a fucking little genius._

_So he went to his bed and looked into his bag until he found what he was searching for: a pair of scissors. He grabbed it and then dedicated all his evil attentions to the girl's dress, beginning to shred it. ( 2)_

_"Do it soon!" The green fairy whispered._

_John listened in: she was right, he had to do it soon. Paul's groaning were getting stronger and faster and John knew, thanks to the many wanking sessions they did in Liverpool, that it was a matter of few seconds before everything ended and a very satisfied and very sleepy Paul would get rid of the bird in a heartbeat._

_So he was very pitiless over the dress and looked at his work in the faint light of the fairy. Of course it could still be worn, but surely the girl wouldn’t go unnoticed!_

_Finally, Paul's ecstasy filled the room and John’s ears, and he decided to complete his work by giving some adjustments to her lingerie. Here, now his work was complete. Even the green fairy seemed satisfied._

_"Great job, John!"_

_"What the hell are you doing, John?"_

_The two sentences overlapped and John looked up to see Paul, with his arms crossed, and a deep frown on his face. The girl next to him tried to cover her nakedness, but when she realized what John had done, her expression changed drastically and all her shame disappeared. She crouched to the ground, grabbing her clothes from John's hands, and she most likely started to swear in German. John wasn’t very sure about it because he still didn’t know the language well, but the twisted features of her face and her tone, which had to be harsher than usual even for the German parameters, made him realize that intuition._

_Then the girl tried to dress somehow, and in the meantime she shouted things even against Paul, who perhaps wasn’t expecting it, and John couldn’t help but giggle. Paul didn’t know what to say. When she found her shoes and went to the door, he approached her, mumbling something that looked like "_ Enwart _!" ( 3)_

_And then she went out, climbing up the stairs and Paul followed her, or at least he tried to._

_"_ Es tut mir _..._ mir _... fuck!" ( 4)_

_John stayed on the floor, still laughing and feeling stunned by the hangover. He was perceiving the green fairy somewhere inside him, where she had taken refuge at the arrival of the two guys. She laughed in approval, complimenting for his work, patting on his shoulders._

_"John?" Paul called back, "John?"_

_"That was fun."_

_"Oh yeah, funny to death. What happened to you?"_

_Paul didn’t seem particularly angry. However, John could hear in his voice a disgusted note he didn’t quite like. He wasn’t wrong. At least not this time._

_"What happened to me? What happened to you, Paul? Disappearing without warning anyone."_

_"It’s not like I left for fucking Honolulu all of a sudden. I just came here. Plus, I don’t need a fucking nanny."_

_"Paul, you don’t understand, do you? We're a group, a group in a foreign country. We have to stick together and protect each other. I can’t lose anyone."_

_Above all...Paul, John’s inner voice added. Was it still the green fairy?_

_Paul's frowned expression relaxed into something more pleasant and chuffed, "Is it just that?"_

_John nodded, slowly and almost fearful._

_"Did you do all this because you were worried about me?"_

_"Well, worried is quite a big word." Quickly, John explained and shrugged, "Besides, if I knew what I would find, I wouldn’t even come to look for you."_

_"But you did, which means you were worried." Paul said, crossing his arms, unable to look away from John._

_"Stop it!"_

_"Come on, admit it. There’s nothing wrong with it."_

_"If I do, will you stop repeating it?"_

_Paul nodded energetically._

_"All right." he said, bending his head slightly and feeling slightly blushed._

_Shit, why was he blushing now?_

_"I was worried about you."_

_The smile Paul addressed him after those words was the answer to his question. He was blushing because he was afraid to see such a reaction on Paul's face. To see it and maybe... to desire it?_

_"Thank you, John. I promise you next time I'll tell you before I disappear."_

_"You mustn’t disappear." John added in a low voice._

_"I won’t, but you have to promise me one thing."_

_"What is it?"_

_"Promise you'll count till ten before freaking out? So maybe your crazy ideas disappear before you really get in trouble."_

_John wanted to tell him it was all the green fairy’s fault, but he didn’t because then Paul would believe he was really crazy this time. He decided instead to accept the promise for Paul and made one to himself too. He wouldn’t trust the green fairy anymore._

_"Agree."_

_Even though, fuck! For that smile, he would follow all the green fairies of the world._

****

He couldn’t believe it.

Was she here again? But John wasn’t even drunk with absinthe. He had drunk it diluted in the French way. He could understand the hallucination of his first absinthe-drinking as he had drunk it straight up. But now? Why was she there? With her green dress, her blond hair and above all, clingy to Paul?

Paul in the arms of the green fairy.

John shook his head. Then he remembered the promise he had made and counted up to ten. He counted very slowly to ten.

1... 2...

It was pointless, she was still there. Besides she seemed more real than ever. Her red lips were brushing against Paul's cheek, her hand caressing his chest trying to creep under his jacket...

3... 4... 5...

The green fairy wasn’t an illusion this time and was much more dangerous than his hallucination because she was real and she was with Paul, a very fucking drunken Paul: his eyes were closed, his head was swaying and a naive smile stirred his lips, so that every now and then he opened his mouth in a silly giggle, as stupid as he was.

6... 7... 8...

John's mind worked frantically, thinking maybe she had sent that bottle for some odd reason that might have to do with the bird’s hand roaming under Paul's jacket now, right where Paul held his wallet.

_To hell counting up to ten!_

John approached the table with a hasty pace and pulled the girl away from Paul, grabbing her by the shoulder.

"Leave him alone." he said, "Right away!"

The girl didn’t get perturbed and leaned against the back of the chair, crossing her slender legs, and looked at him with mischievous eyes.

" _Pourquoi_? You jealous?" She asked with a sensual French accent.

"No, but listen to me. Leave him alone, he has already someone!"

" _Mais oui_? You?"

The girl laughed at her own joke and John snorted, deeply irritated by her flirtatious and unpleasant ways.

"You're so off track, sweetheart."

"You say? _Alors_ , you very jealous. You looked at me all the _soir_ , you jealous. But your _ami_ is _tres jolie_. I like him."

"He can be _tres jolie_ , but he’s also very drunk thanks to you. So get your fucking hands off him."

" _Calmez-vous, chérie_. We have fun _seulement_. If you want, I'll even find a _fille_ for you too. Lots of _amies_ here." she said, running her fingers through Paul's hair, who now had his head resting on the wall and seemed no longer aware of what was happening.

The desire to get rid of the girl and take care of Paul suddenly became an urgency that occupied all the space in John's mind.

"Sure, so while your _amies_ are distracting me, you take care of my friend. How kind of you. I know what you did, darling, I know what kind of lady you are. You chose my friend because with that face he seems an easy prey, moreover we are foreigners. You sent us absinthe to stun us, so your plan would have been easier, but I'll tell you something, my little green fairy." he burst out, grabbing her arm and forcing her to stand up, "You can’t cheat me anymore. And now go fucking away from my sight, before I get really angry."

The girl blushed showily and shook John's grip. Then she left, snobby, with the usual French nose up in the air. She passed him by, adjusting her long hair with her hand and the perfume of anise tickled John’s nostrils.

He did it. This time John had been able to recognize the green fairy and defeat her. He was very proud of himself. Maybe for the first time in his life.

Then a thud caught his attention and he saw Paul's head dropping and slamming against the table. Totally unconscious. He twisted his lips, thinking of what would inevitably follow.

Five minutes later he was on the street, with Paul feather-weight McCartney on his shoulders, in the direction of their small hotel. His arms wrapped around John’s neck, his nose touched his ear, his breath filled with alcohol tickled the sensitive skin of John’s face. Once again he was taking care of Paul as if he was a younger brother, with the same tenderness Paul used to take care of Mike.

And this time it was because of the green fairy, it was because of her. Or perhaps it was _thanks to_ her if John was now in that situation, if he now reserved all those delicate attentions to Paul; it was thanks to her if he felt this feeling of sweet affection, almost devotion, almost thrill.

_A feeling beyond friendship?_ His inner voice suggested.

No fucking way, it couldn’t be. He was wrong. He recognized that voice, it was still hers, the insidious green fairy. It had to be hers.

And he promised to never trust the green fairy again.

 

_( 1) Schnudel pudel_ was the name the transvestites in Hamburg used to call their clients. This info is in the Beatles Anthology.

_( 2) _John cutting the dress of Paul’s girl is a real fact, and it’s also in the Beatles Anthology.

_( 3) Enwart _is like _“Wait!”_ in German _._

_( 4) _Paul is trying to say _Es tut mir leid,_ that is _“I’m sorry”._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I toldo you it was a weird chapter. ;)  
> Anyway, finally they're in Paris. Who knows what comes next...   
> So the green fairy is something I wanted to put in the story because of her appeareance in the Moulin rouge movie. I think it could be something that could help with the Bohemian atmosphere of that area.   
> I hope you like it.   
> And I have to thank some people now. First of all, the lovely radio hosts of Mclennon radio for the interview they did me last Sunday as Artist of the week. You can find it [here](http://www.mclennonradio.com/2018/02/12/artist-of-the-week-interview-with/).  
> Then thank you to sherlocked221 for being my wonderful beta reader. And last but not the least, to whydontwedoitontheinternet for her amazing drawing about this chapter. You cand find it [here](http://whydontwedoitontheinternet.tumblr.com/post/169691961313/my-drawings-for-an-amazing-fanfiction-ticket-to#notes). Too much cuteness. :3  
> Next chapter will be Guilty.   
> Bye <3


	8. Guilty

When Paul opened his eyes, he cursed himself instantly. The walls around him were whirling, with no intention of stopping. It was as if he was in the eye of the hurricane and before a vomiting impulse had the best of him, Paul closed his eyes again, focusing on the other senses that were still vigilant, or at least working.

He knew he was lying on something not very fluffy, but under the comfortable warmth of soft blankets. He knew he had a terrible headache, as if there was a woodpecker in his skull enjoying hitting him on his temples, then on his forehead and finally on his neck and back again.

_Stupid animal!_

Slowly Paul put two hands on his temples, massaging them with circular movements.

Where he was, there was silence. The only noises came from outside, but they were dull and not distinct.

Paul stayed like this the time he needed to get out of bed and made sure he wouldn’t throw up once he opened his eyes. Then he gathered his courage and did it. He opened his eyes and focused the ceiling. It was all white with a small, simple chandelier in the center.

Well, he was in a room. The problem was to find out which room. He turned his head to his right: no, he definitely didn’t recognize the place. Or maybe he didn’t remember it, which was quite likely. The room was furnished with a small armchair and a wardrobe with two doors. In front of the bed there was a window with closed shutters. The dim light of the morning came as shy glimmers, as if it wanted to respect the unhealthy conditions of the lad who was inside.

Paul recognized his backpack on the floor, along with John's.

Oh fuck! _John_!

There was no sign of his presence in the room. And he was one who could be noticed with the simple and silent gesture of breathing. Paul turned his head to his left. The side of the bed next to him was empty, on the pillow there were signs of someone who had slept on it, and the blankets were well pulled up so that not even a little cold whiff could enter in order to assault those who still slept. Paul. 

Smiling to himself and before he could see it, his right hand slipped under the blankets, touching the folds on the sheet left by John's body, still feeling the warmth he emitted when he was sleeping next to him, imagining his movements during his sleep. Compared to Paul they were almost missing. John had the extraordinary ability to awaken in the same position as he had fallen asleep. As if for a moment he stopped living. Paul shivered at the scary thought. Then he moved his hand to John's pillow, grabbing it with his fingers. In this way he realized he still had the shirt of the day before and even his pants.

He didn’t remember much of the previous night. It was all a bit blurred. He recalled the arrival in Paris, the slog on those damn stairs and finding Montmartre's in an all-casual way. Then there was the futile search of Moulin Rouge and the discreet baguette at the bistro, and eventually everything became green. He only knew he had been awakened in that hotel room.

Without John.

By the way, where was he? And what was the time?

Paul calmly moved his right wrist to his face and checked his watch: a quarter to eleven.

In that moment the door opened suddenly and John came in, cheerfully singing to himself. When he realized that his friend was awake, he smiled and jumped on the bed, which swayed dangerously; Paul swore for an unpleasant stomach movement that fortunately ceased immediately.

"Good morning, my sleeping beauty, I thought you wouldn’t open your eyes anymore. I’m so glad you can join me this morn-"

"John, please, do not scream." Paul babbled with a frown.

His voice roared in his ears with the decibels of one hundred of their concerts, all put together. A real torture.

"Bad hangover, huh? I think it’s the least, what with you've been drinking last night." John said, like he was one who knew a thing or two.

And indeed that was the case: he lost the count of how many times he had ended up vomiting the soul in a park with one of his friends, especially Paul, to hold his head and reassure him that soon everything would be over.

"What did I drink?"

"Absinthe.Worst quality ever, if you just want to know it."

"Oh."

"But your friend John, here, to whom you’ll have to dedicate a monument or at least a whole song one day, went out this morning to bring you great remedies for your being a total fucking asshole."

"What is it?" Paul asked and chose to ignore John's little insult for the simple, wonderful fact that he had woken up relatively early for his holiday standards and had gone out to buy something to make Paul feel better. John himself.

The young lad sat cross-legged and showed him a paper bag before opening it and pulling out the contents. It was essentially a couple of bottles of water and...

"So here we have what looks like delicious and juicy red apples." he said, putting the four good-looking, succulent fruits on the bed, "You know what they say about the apple, Paul, that it’s the fruit of sin and other shit? We also know that it’s very good when you have hangover, it’s a rich source of sugars. We have some water too. You have to drink a lot of it to get rid of that crap you've got in. Here!”

Finally he handed him an apple and a bottle of water.

Paul looked the offers and then John, taking the water and the fruit out of his hands. He brought the apple to his mouth, when he suddenly stopped and turned a skeptical look at John.

"Are you sure I can trust you?"

"Of course you fucking can, I didn’t poison it."

"Who can assure me that?" he asked shrugging, "I don’t even know where you picked it up. Anything could happen to me.The poisoned apple could put me into an eternal sleep and only true love kiss could wake me..."

"In that case I think you'll stay like that forever." John said, but Paul continued without paying him much attention.

"Or, dear God, I may realize to be completely naked and that you abused me."

John looked at him, deeply bored by _The McCartney's show_.

"Your bum would fucking hurt in that case. And anyway..." he said, giving him a pat on his nape, "Shut up and eat that bloody apple!"

Paul chuckled and obeyed, giving a bite to the fruit, tasting its sweet taste in his mouth. John mirrored him immediately and Paul looked at him amused, thinking that moment, that delicious breakfast in bed was so far the most beautiful moment of their holiday because it tasted of tranquility, one thing they could hardly have in Liverpool or during their stays in Hamburg. And after all, a vacation shouldn’t have fun only, but also moments of relaxation.

"So, do you remember anything about what happened last night?"

Paul shook his head, "No, I just remember the baguette. Could you be so kind to enlighten me?"

John looked at him for a moment and bit his lower lip, wondering if he should tell Paul what had actually happened, that he was almost robbed by a shameless French bird. If John told him, he was sure that Paul would be ashamed to death, blush all over his face, and his lips would become thinner for tension. Not to mention that he would have been annoyingly quiet for the rest of the day, and wouldn’t have enjoyed the beauty that travel had to offer them.

"Fine. So, you have to know, my dear Paul, that yesterday, thanks to you, we lost a golden chance with two gorgeous birds who had noticed us."

"Thanks to me?" Paul replied, blinking.

"Sure, thanks to you and your dumb hangover. The girls were two knockout and surely they would have been up for it, but you were so fucked up that I had to give up some fun to take care of you, just because you weren’t conscious anymore."

Paul bowed his head, looking the apple in his hand, "I'm sorry, John."

"You have to! I tried to wake you up, but there was nothing to do. You were completely knocked out, and that's because you didn’t listen to me when I told you to go easy with that stuff."

Paul listened to John's reproaches and fiddled with the apple in his hands, not to think that he was about to blush.

"Paul, you really made me worry when you didn’t answer me." John said and Paul knew he wasn’t joking no more, "I had to carry you here on my shoulders, and the only available room was on the second floor. Do you know what it means to climb a double staircase with your sweet weight on my shoulders?"

Paul shook his head and tried to fight the smile that was making its way on his lips to the image John had created in his mind. Paul did it, thinking he had been so knocked out to have lost that moment. Yes, he was there, on John's back but unconscious. He hadn’t been able to feel his arms supporting him or the smell of his skin or worse, the curses he should have addressed during the short walk. They always made him laugh a lot. But now he wouldn’t have any memories, only words, ephemeral things that couldn’t thrill him as much as a gesture or its memory.

"I promise I won’t make you worry again, John. Really." he assured him.

"Yeah, sure. I've heard this before."John snapped, crossing his arms.

"True, but I never promised it and I'm doing it now."

"I’m not sure. It could be the residue of alcohol talking in your place."

"You know it’s me." He said, looking into his eyes.

John stared back for a long while, then sighed.

"If you still make me worry this way, you will receive a fucking punishment. You could count on it."

"Agree." Paul exclaimed, smiling, "So, we can make up now?"

"Why? Did we fight?"

Paul shrugged. "Well, I did a terrible thing like stopping you from have a go with those birds..."

John laughed, leaning backwards on the bed and stretching.

"Oh, you know, they weren’t all that great beauties, maybe it was a fortune. I was so tired because of your fucking stairs that my performance would be rather insolent. And you know, John Lennon has a reputation to defend, a very high one." he explained, winking at him and Paul chuckled.

"Of course, Johnny boy."

"Now, eat those bloody apples, otherwise I'll kill you."

"Yes siree."

"So at least we can go out today. I don’t want to stay here all day."

Paul nodded and hurried to eat the apple. Now and then he looked up to gaze quickly, sneakingly at John crunching his apple, lying on the bed with his head beside the little hill of Paul's feet under the blanket.

John didn’t really look angry, Paul thought. Surely he had done all that act to make him feel guilty because he missed the opportunity with those girls, but Paul couldn’t really feel guilty. In fact, he was almost happy about what happened. He just didn’t want John to go with some insipid French bird, met only half an hour before, who didn’t even know where John came from. He was traveling with him, damn it, with Paul, and all the others could go fuck themselves just for a while, instead of distracting John from that little, precious moment they were sharing, a memory that would belong only to the two of them and no one else.

It was a journey during which all the feelings Paul had buried somewhere in his heart were coming out, and only now he was aware that he hadn’t done a good job. Years ago he had felt that John, behind his bold facade, was suffering for the death of a mother who he had lost twice; and now he was aware that he could no longer hide those feelings and that it was John himself who was uncovering them.

It was as if they were hidden just behind a curtain and John, during that journey, with all those little gestures of concern, protection toward Paul, his caring for him, made the simple action to just move the tent as if he wanted to look inside. Paul was afraid he would do it, but at the same time wanted him to, he wanted him to look at that point of his soul that had always been closed to everyone, including John. Maybe even to Paul himself. Because only John would have had the strength to pull aside that curtain, and because inside he would find nothing but himself.

Paul didn’t feel guilty about it. He just couldn’t.

****

_What a crappy evening!_

_It had been one of those days when Paul had overthought about those doubts and problems that occasionally had fun reappearing and annoying him. And they could be very cruel. If they decided to occupy his mind throughout the day, there was no way to change it. And since he had woken up, he had his mind focused on that work, which was definitely unhelpful, because it involved all his abilities, with the result that Paul was distracted, with slow reflections. Even playing became complicated and he’d often miss a chord or some words. Exactly what happened that day at the Top Ten._

_It didn’t happen often that Paul made mistakes about a chord or a start. Usually he was the precise and perfect one in the band and when it came to him to make mistakes, all his mates took advantage of the situation to tease him and let off steam for all Paul’s disapproval. Apart from John. John used to look at him with a mix of worry and disappointment because he expectednothing of the sort from him. Because if Paul stumbled, he had told him once, all of them stumbled. And that, his simple glance was sharper than any insult from George or Pete or Stuart – the asshole - Sutcliffe. John's look had the extraordinary ability to make Paul feel guilty, as if he had killed his puppy._

_And now Paul was going to the only place, to the only thing that could cheer him up: a quick shag in his bed with the first available girl._

_Until a few seconds before he was sitting at the bar counter, looking lost in the ice cubes of his drink, strangely interested in how they were floating in the alcohol. He had waited there for any of his bandmates to reach him for another lecture, John, perhaps, who would lambast him well, like Paul needed. Then it would be over, John would leave everything behind his back, sure that Paul understood his severe words, sure to have clarified how important his role in the band was, and they would come back joyfully and carefree as before._

_However, John hadn’t been seen. And Paul felt almost sorry. He didn’t want the night to fall on his mistakes, on the sorrows he had brought to John. He wanted to tell him that he was mortified, not knowing what he was doing and to assure him that such things wouldn’t happen again. But no trace of John at the horizon._

_Then came this German bird who had approached him with a wobbly English, but definitely better than the way he spoke German, and at first Paul wasn’t particularly enthusiastic. He didn’t really want to talk to anyone apart from John, of course. Paul had sucked during the show and John had blamed him with his penetrating hazel eyes. For a moment Paul felt totally naked in front of him, with all those thoughts and feelings on display for John and no one else. The sensation had been so helpless that at the end Paul took the opportunity with that girl only because he would finally have control of something that night, just because it would allow him to keep his head busy and not think, nor feel anything out of simple pleasure._

_So now he was coming fast down the stairs to their small apartment, with the girl's hand tight in his. He was in a hurry, but not because he was excited. In facthe wasn’t feeling the blood running in his veins, warming up every part of him, he wasn’t feeling the pleasant sensation that lightened his belly, a feeling of nervous wait. He had the stunned brain, however, and the blurred vision, just as when he was about to have some birds. He knew this depended on the urgency he had to turn off his mind and all the overthinking that had been tormenting him since he woke up that morning, as if he was preparing for something, as if something important was about to happen... which it made him even more agitated._

_Fuck, he really needed that distraction!_

_He was relieved when he came to the front door. He opened it impatiently, pulled in the girl and immediately stopped. Throughout the room, he heard moans and grunts and Paul knew immediately where they came from. In the bed in front of him, there was a small ass that went up and down, wrapped in two slender legs. ( 1)_

_John was with a fucking girl._

_"Oh, already occupied." the girl next to Paul giggled silly._

_Her laughter had the effect to stop John's movements and his friend turned abruptly toward them, grunting. Paul saw him narrowing his eyes to focus on the intruders, with that annoyed expression he had seen many times on his face. He didn’t like being interrupted when talking, let alone when he was fucking a girl. It meant serious trouble for whoever did it!_

_"Paul?! What the fuck are you doing here?!"_

_He almost barked at him and Paul frowned: "Well, this should be my room as well."_

_"Fucking hell! Not a single moment of privacy here."_

_"Oh, just ignore him." the girl under him said, tightening him even more with her legs and arms, inviting him to turn back to her for a deep kiss, inviting him to pay no attention to Paul._

_To ignore him._

_John laughed, resuming his passionate movements inside her. Paul went back on his steps, and the girl followed him into the little hall, and then he closed the door, leaning his back against it. John's moans came to his ears, reverberating in him through the wood._

_What was happening to him?_

_He was shaking, he felt his whole body shivering, his hands, arms, chest and heart, which sounded restless and excited and happy and fucking scared._

_Why?_

_Because of what he just saw. Was it really that? He hadn’t seen anything so unusual, only John and the on duty slut._

_And why did he go away? After all, it wasn’t the first time they shared the same room during those moments of intimacy with a girl. So why, why the fuck did he go away?_

_"So, what are we doing?" The girl asked, quite bored._

_Paul startled to the question that had taken him by surprise in the midst of his thoughts, because of the fact that they were leading him to replies he was afraid of. He had forgotten about her for a moment, and now, abruptly brought to reality, Paul pushed her aside and, without saying a word, he left, leaving her alone at the door of their apartment. Suddenly the fun she could offer him lost interest and Paul just wanted to go far away, as far away as possible from that girl, from that apartment and yes, from John, too. Especially from John and the bitch who, without any problems, had told him to ignore him. Him, Paul! How dared she? Without the slightest knowledge of John, Paul, of what they were and had shared and continued to share, how did she dare to advance that request?_

_Paul took a hand over his mouth as he stepped forward along the Reeperbahn, ignoring all that surrounded him and trying to draw his attention, except for that pounding hammer of his heart in his chest, ears, in any fucking part of his body._

_It was as if a part of him felt happier now, lighter and more carefree, while the other was desperate and frightened by this feeling that blurred his sight and clouded his mind and made him wander without goal, with only one thought in his head. The thought that he would be a lot happier somewhere, anywhere with John scolding him because he played shitty all day, maybe even insulting him with wickedness, rather than letting him have fun with that bitch._

_If that was really jealousy, as clearly as it seemed, then he was really fucked up. It would be right being jealous of John because of Stuart, Paul somehow had accepted it. It also had some sense, Paul wanted to be the special friend, John's most special one._

_But being jealous of John because of a girl? It was different, oh, it was so terribly, dangerously different. It meant that Paul didn’t want to be just John's special mate. It meant that Paul wanted to be the special person for John._

_The only one._

_The only one to feel for him the feeling that was together sweetness and possessiveness._

_Why was he feeling it?_

_And above all, what was it?_

****

Paul sighed heavily, remembering the fact that had just crossed his mind and made him blush a little bit. He sighed because in fact, he had all the reasons of the world to feel guilty.

Because that was the night when he realized he loved John.

Not like he loved George nor even how he loved Mike or his father.

He loved him with that feeling that shocks and comforts, and then discourages and cheers up. That feeling that was born slowly, so slowly in him that when he realized it, it was too late to remove it or resize it or try to turn it into something else.

And then thinking about it, he didn’t even want to cancel it. He didn’t want to think he'd never felt something like that for John. The only hypothesis was more terrible than his current situation, which was already quite desperate.

Loving John Lennon? Loving his best friend? He must have been crazy. He had always thought that the crazy one among them was John. But infinite were the surprises that could save life and this, in the end, is just what happens while you’re busy making other plans _( 2)_. And Paul had always thought that one day, so far away, he would have fallen in love with a girl and would have realized it trivially, taking her by the hand as usual and looking into her eyes.

With John nothing of this had happened. It had been a violent and sudden revelation. All of a sudden, Paul opened his eyes on his life’s path, and noticed that there was John beside him. He walked with him in the same direction, with his own pace towards the same dreams, same happiness, leaving behind their shoulders the same experiences, the same pains.

Like a soulmate.

And sharing an entire life was so powerful that Paul couldn’t help but fall in love. With life. With his life with John. With John himself.

"Hey!"

John called in, giving him a pinch on his toes from outside the blanket, and Paul startled on the bed. The young man looked at him and blushed for being caught in the midst of his intimate thoughts, which involved that boy Paul shared the room and his life with.

"What?"

The voice trembled, but Paul was now trained to disguise it, so that John couldn’t notice that something, something about him, was disturbing his mate.

"I was thinking about an idea." John began to say, putting his hands behind his head.

"What is it?"

"Would you like to stay in Paris all week?"

"In Paris?" Paul repeated, opening wide his eyes for surprise, "But didn’t you want to go to Spain?"

"Yeah, but it's so fucking far away. And you know, after all this room isn’t really bad."

"No, it's not bad at all, John. Not to mention the bed, it's so comfortable." Paul said, smiling, stretching under the covers with catlike movements.

"Exactly. It's way better than those cars and trucks we would sleep on if we decide to go to Spain."

Paul bit his lip, thinking about it: "In fact we didn’t visit Paris properly."

"And we could always go to Spain next year, when I’m still receiving the money for my birthday."

John winked at him and Paul laughed.

"What about if you won’t receive anything at all?"

"Well then, we'll go when we’ll be famous. ‘Cause, you know that one day it’ll happen, don’t you?"

Paul nodded, he knew that because he trusted John and John was never wrong. At least as far as the matter was about their group. So he smiled and shrugged.

"Fuck yeah, let’s stay in Paris. Spain won’t move any soon, right?"

"Right! Who could fucking move it from there?" He exclaimed and then crawled on the bed to Paul, suddenly removing the blanket.

A gust of cold air struck Paul, who immediately retracted his legs.

"John!"

"Come on, kid, we have a city that is waiting for us. Just move and go wash yourself. I'm not going to spend my day in this fucking hotel."

"Okay, okay, I got it."

Paul stood up and gave him a prolonged look before heading to the bathroom.

Perhaps he was really guilty and his crime was to love his best friend. A serious crime that probably no one, not even John himself, could have understood and tolerated.

Maybe loving John would have been the hardest thing to deal with in his life. It would have been the end of their friendship, if not even the end of his own life. It was a plausible option, that story could have one and only end, one verdict: his broken heart. A slow and painful death that he had been looking for.

But that was all right.

_This court finds the accused…_

He wouldn’t give up loving John for all the absolutions of the world.

_Guilty._

_( 1) – Quote from the Anthology, reported by Paul. _

_( 2) – Quote from Beautiful boy’s lyrics. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yas, new chapter online, a very important one for our Paul.   
> Well, let me thank all the lovely readers who left so many kind comments. That made me so happy, even because translating this fanfic is making me realize that it has a loooooot of flaws. It should be re-written but of course, it's late now. ç_ç  
> A big thank you also to sherlocked221 for her work as betareader, and to whydontwedoitontheinternet for her support and friendship.   
> Next chapter will be... Bravery! It'll be the last one with flashbacks.   
> Bye


	9. Bravery

_John Lennon knew that Paul McCartney was an asshole. He knew he was a colossal fucking asshole._

_However, he didn’t expect Paul to do such a thing to him._

_They had just returned from their incredible stay in Hamburg and had already been hired to play at the Cavern, in Liverpool. Practically a dream come true. John was so excited that the first person he'd thought to call was the one who, along with John, was the longest member of the band, Paul._

_So John told him the offer in every detail, and his voice was trembling with the euphoria that was overwhelming him._

_However, he wasn’t ready to listen what Paul told him dryly, "I can’t."_

_John remained silent, trying to recover, as long as it was possible, and when he was able to talk again, he asked why._

_Paul replied with the one thing John was more afraid to hear coming out of his mouth._

_"I found a job."_

_"You found a what?" John asked, giggling not for fun, but rather for nervousness._

_His voice was also increased by three tones, which usually didn’t promise anything good._

_"A job, John, a-job." Paul spelled the wordsin order for John to understand what he was saying to him._

_"So, what kind of job have you found?" he asked, involuntarily shaking his hand around the handset, as if he was about to collapse and seek support that Paul could no longer give him._

_"Something at Massey & Coggins." Paul vaguely replied.  (1)_

_John smirked with a grin that would annoy Paul if he could have seen him._

_What fucking answer was that? How could that answer clear John's stunned mind? It meant nothing to him. How could it make him feel better?_

_On the contrary, it only made him even more angry, because John knew what was behind that fucking story._

_"It was your dad, right? Did he find this fucking job?" he almost growled against the phone, but it had to be so._

_It couldn’t have been Paul's idea. John had seen him in Hamburg, how Paul was enthusiastic about playing with them, with him, how much he had fun, how much he cared about their band, George, Pete, even Stuart. And John, of course. He had felt all of this and John could never believe that, once in Liverpool, Paul had come out of the house one day to look for a fucking job._

_"You're wrong, John." he answered, but his voice was wearing the transparent dress of uncertainty that John was able to take away with too much ease._

_"Paul!" he shouted angrily._

_"Oh, and so, John? This is none of your business."_

_"Of course it is, if you break up with meto please him."_

_"I'm sure you'll find someone else in my place." Paul pointed out and John noticed a bit of disappointment in his voice._

_"Yeah, sure! No one who can take your fucking place, Paul."_

_John didn’t know exactly how the words came out of his mouth. Perhaps it was because of too much anger. Anger because Paul was leaving him in trouble, anger because he was preferring someone else to John, anger because he still thought he wasn’t enough for the band and for John, when on the contrary, hewas all. Without him John wouldn’t even have learned to play the guitar well._

_At the other end of the phone there was silence, as if Paul didn’t know what to say. And John knew he had to do something._

_"Paul, you don’t need to work. We have our band." he said in a reassuring tone, when a bit of anger passed._

_"You don’t understand, John."_

_"Let me understand then." John burst out, exasperated._

_He wanted to have him in his hands to slap him and bring him back to normality, or perhaps to beg him not to abandon him._

_"I already know what you would say."_

_"Try anyway." his friend encouraged him._

_"No, John, I'm sorry. I have to drop the band."_

_It was very much a Paul’s thing to dump the argument that he just couldn’t bear and stay vague, so John didn’t know where to hit his head to answer him. Paul was a champion in this field. First, second and third place._

_"Paul, we have rehearsal tomorrow. If you do not come, you're out. Ok?” ( 2)_

_It had cost him much to say that, but he knew he had to put Paul in a corner, to make him change his mind, to spur him to face his father once and for all about the band. He knew that Paul had the courage to do so. Paul only had to believe it, believe that if he had searched deep inside, he would find somewhere the courage to face his father and anything else in his life._

_Paul had to believe as John believed in him and then he would make the right choice, John was sure._

_"Ok." Paul sighed, "Bye, John."_

_He hung up._

_John stayed on the phone, listening to the signal rumbling in his ear._

_He couldn’t lose Paul when they got the Cavern. Shit, how many times did they laugh because they believed they never and ever could have performed there? And now that the dream was becoming true, Paul was leaving him._

_The fuck he could do that!_

_John wasn’t going to give up on him so easily. He needed him. He desperately needed him. Suddenly the idea of playing without him was so frighteningly horrible and insignificant. As if without Paul, John couldn’t do anything anymore, as if nothing could be still interesting, as if with him the sun had gone out of his life._

_Paul couldn’t leave him._

_And John would have prevented it at any cost._

*****

His heart was beating fast and Paul didn’t really know the reason.

Maybe because he was about to cut his hair and give up that quiff.

Or perhaps because every now and then, in his mind, there was the absurd desire to confess to John the secret that had long been inside him, forced into that melancholy cage by Paul himself, because, holy heaven, no one should know it. No one, especially John. It would have been the end of everything and Paul didn’t want to. Yet lately, he felt more and more often ready to open that cage and it was John who was giving him the key.

He felt he was brave enough to risk everything he had built with John, for this feeling of endless torment. It was, in a sense, as if he thought that, yes, he would probably ruin everything, but John would get it. Somehow he would get what Paul had to offer him and keep him in the band because he needed Paul, as a musician and as a friend. He would, of course, suffer, but at least he could continue to hang out with him. Part of him knew that it wouldn’t be the same with John. Everything would inevitably change, and Paul wouldn’t accept the change, because it wouldn’t be any more satisfying.

At that moment John chuckled, because Jürgen had just cut a bit from one of his auburn locks.

Paul looked at him, smiling at himself. John's laughter was always good-humored, cheered him up instantly, and Paul relaxed. He could never give up to that. So, he would have suffered a lot listening to John saying that he couldn’t offer him nothing more than friendship, but Paul would have been happy to be with him however John wanted, because life without John would be useless and sad and fucking cold.

Then, damn it, there was also the hypothesis that John could never understand and the scenarios of that hypothesis were terrible and Paul didn’t even want to take them into account, otherwise he choked and-

He struggled on the couch, trying to find a better position. That couch was so uncomfortable, but he still tried to breathe deeply and calm down.

With their great joy and surprise, only few hours before they met Jürgen Vollmer in a Paris’s left bank’s district. They were seated at the bar watching French students hurry to return to lesson after lunch break, when they saw a family silhouette taking pictures of the Seine landscape that crossed Paris.

"Bloody hell!" John said, and immediately after pulling Paul's arm, he stood up to reach the boy.

Paul had followed him step by step, and he began to recognize him as their friend from Hamburg.

What a pleasant surprise finding a familiar face among many strangers that crossed that city. Finding it by accident made it all more exciting. If Paul thought they were able to meet in Paris, they had found themselves in the same spot on the same day, at the same time without even agreeing... fuck! It was so incredibly electrifying. It was in those moments that Paul was beginning to believe that there was someone who maneuvered their lives like puppets, someone who decided where they have to go, who they would meet and love. Some called it destiny, some luck, others God. Paul didn’t know how to call it, but he was certain that meeting Jürgen in Paris had been inevitable, and in the same way, John's arrival was also inevitable in that hot summer day four years earlier. It had been set up by someone, it was an important chapter in that great book titled " _Paul McCartney's Life_ ". And not only his arrival, but his having fallen in love with John had been fatal, as if once he came into contact with John, he couldn’t have prevented this from happening, even if he had made an effort, even if he had wanted to.

Jürgen had moved to Paris to attend the university and study photography. All alone. Paul was rather impressed. It took great courage to abandon the comfort zone of his hometown to go to a foreign country. It took courage to embark on such a trip alone, leaving his family and friends in Hamburg to make new ones there, in Paris. Paul somehow admired him. And this had forced him to think if he could do something like that. Maybe not. Yes, he had gone to Hamburg, had also embarked on a tour of Scotland before the German adventure, but Paul had been in a band. He had the group: they defended each other, encouraged and strengthened each other. They were never alone in those journeys. Jürgen instead had been brave enough to do all this alone, and Paul wanted to have a pinch of that courage to use it in any aspect of his life: to enforce his ideas in the band, to explain once and for all to his father that he wanted to make music and live with it, to confess to John his darkest secret.

"Hey, Paul! What do you say?"John called him.

Paul shook his head and approached John and Jürgen. Under the chair where John was seated, there were so many small auburn locks, which Jürgen's scissors had cut off with uncertain movements.

When they met Jürgen, John was very impressed with his friend's hairstyle. His hair was flattered on his head, with the fringe on his forehead. It was very different from John and Paul’s hair, and in the last few days, attending such ayoung city, the two guys realized it was a widespread cut. And everything that was fashionable had to be tested by John and Paul. So they tried to convince Jürgen to cut their hair with the same hairstyle. But he was reluctant at the beginning because, "No, boys, no. I like you as rocker; you look great." _( 3)_

However, John wasn’t one who was easily discouraged and so he begged him, stressed him how only he knew.

"Come on!" John told him, "We are on holiday and it is our fucking right to have fun and throw prudence away."

So Jürgen finally agreed, and now they were in his hotel room and Paul was looking at the result on John's head, who had offered as a guinea pig. He looked so different. It wasn’t like Jürgen's hairstyle, it looked like the hat of a mushroom. Paul had to do a lot of effort not to burst into laughter and make John, and perhaps even Jürgen, so angry because obviously the cut didn’t work well. It made Paul think. Was he ready for such a drastic change? After all, one could understand a lot of a person by their haircut and until then, they had seemed real rock'n’ roll singers, just like Elvis. But now what impression would they have on people? That hairstyle was good for Bohemian academics and intellectuals, such as Jürgen and those guys who were on the left bank of the Seine, while it could make John and Paul appear like normal people. No one could have said from that haircut they were rock stars and the most tragic thing was that fans could have abandoned them. This would be the end for their group.

However, John seemed satisfied with the haircut as he looked in the mirror, confronting Jürgen and complimenting on his work. Then perhaps Paul would also follow him in this adventure without hesitation. If John trusted Jürgen, why shouldn’t he just do that?

"Wow, John. Now you can go to college and be a real bohemian."

"Great, then it's up to you now." John said and rose to give way to Paul.

His heart whirled when John pushed him into the chair.

Why was Paul afraid to follow John? It was always for the fucking matter of Paul being not brave enough, while John seemed to have bravery for both of them. But Paul was sure that behind that haircut there was a deeper meaning: he wouldn’t only change his look, but himself too and as a consequence, his future, his life.

Who knows, maybe it could give some of that courage that Paul longed to have.

"All right, then." he exclaimed, clasping the armrests with his hands, "Let's have a cut."

*****

_Paul didn’t show up._

_That asshole had skipped rehearsal and John was just furious: he believed that Paul would choose them after John's ultimatum. He knew Paul didn’t like being put in a corner, especially from John. So he was fucking sure that Paul would eventually choose him and found the strength to rebel against his father’s will. But no, this time John lost the competition and for this reason he was going was crazy. John never lost and especially John couldn’t lose Paul._

_But John also knew that the game wasn’t over yet and eventually he would win._

_That's why he was now heading toward the place where Paul worked. It hadn’t been difficult to find out where he was, George always knew everything about Liverpool. It was a sort of gossiper and this was very useful in such cases. Paul was working at Massey & Coggins’, John knew that already, Paul told him: it was a company that fabricated electric motors and other similar things John didn’t understand at all. But the kid didn’t tell him that his job was to sweep the courtyards, while George discovered it going to meet him in his workplace to convince him to return in the band. An attempt that had apparently misfired._

_"You were ashamed to tell me, weren’t you, Paul?" John thought when George had told him everything._

_It was an extra reason to go, pick him up and drag him away. If he had to work there, then Paul should have been proud of whatever work he was doing, just as he was proud of being part of the band. This way, however, he had nothing but unconsciously communicating to John he wanted to be saved, wanted to be desperately saved, and John never pulled back when a friend asked for help._

_When he arrived on the crime scene, he looked around, trying to remember George's instructions: "You have to leave the front door on your left. Then go ahead and run along the wall. Follow it until you turn left. A few meters further, on the other side of the wall, you’ll find Paul."_

_And so did John. The wall was taller at least ten inches. He found a small recess in a ruined brick and tucked his foot in, climbing to the top of the well-aligned red brick rows. He pushed upwards, pressing on his arms and finally lifted one leg, throwing it on the other side._

_Paul was really there, all intent on sweeping the yard with an old broomstick, his back a little curved, the expression concentrated but also rather bored. Sure, John could see him doing that job for the rest of his life. Paul wasn’t like that, neither John. He knew their way would be another._

_"You know, if you stay so low, you’ll get the hump."_

_Paul turned to him and looked rather surprised to find his friend perched on that wall._

_"John? What are you doing here?"He asked, looking nervously around._

_John with an agile jump reached him on the ground._

_"I came to bring you something you forgot the last time you slept at Mendips."_

_Paul looked at him uncertainly as he approached him, "What?"_

_John smiled and slapped him on his nape._

_"Your brain, asshole!"_

_"Ouch!" Paul complained, rubbing the affected part._

_"Well, now it's back in his place." John chuckled, then grabbed him in the shirt sleeve, "Come on, let's get out of here."_

_But when he began dragging him to the wall, Paul stopped, getting rid of his grip._

_"Wait a second, what are you doing?"_

_"It seems obvious to me, I'm bringing you where you should be at this precise moment: at the rehearsal with our band for the Cavern concert. You remember the band, didn’t you, Paul?" He asked with a sour smile on his lips._

_"John, no, I can’t."_

_"What does 'I can’t’ mean?" John said, frowning._

_The challenge was becoming tougher than he expected, and John felt that it would require a considerable effort on his part, as well as sharing feelings that he was reluctant to show Paul. Why, though, was still a mystery._

_"I mean I can’t keep up with the band, I've already explained it to you."_

_"Then explain it again, because you know how slow I can be sometimes!"_

_"I have a steady job now, John, and they pay me good, almost eight pounds a week."_

_"Oh, yeah, a fucking fortune. You’re so lucky. Why am I not doing the same?" John said acid, but Paul chose to ignore his tone, continuing to speak softly._

_"It's safe money, John, not like when we're on tour in Scotland or Hamburg, where we can’t even be sure to be paid."_

_"It's about holding up a bit longer, Paul, we're going to break through." John approached him to grab his shoulders, "I can feel it."_

_"We don’t know how long this will last, we aren’t even sure that success will come and John, surely this won’t give me a living for now. On the contrary, this work will allow me to help my brother and my father."_

_John saw red and grabbed his shirt, immediately making his back slam against the wall and keeping him stuck with his hand pressed on his heart’s level. The broom fell to the ground, making a great noise and John hoped that no one would come out to check what was happening._

_"Now listen to me or I’ll fucking kill you. We both know that you want to work here as much as I do, that is to say, in no fucking way. We both know that you’re doing it for your father and we know that you’re knocking your wings alone and that I’m going to stop you because I can’t lose you. The band can’t survive without you."_

_Neither can John, it seemed. And at this point, John didn’t care about anything more, other than take Paul back with him, to have him back to his side... to reconquer him._

_"Why?"_

_"Because I just can’t do this, this band is something that works, Paul, and you know it. Fuck, you know better than me, I'm sure you knew it the first time I saw you playing. The potential of this group is mainly due to us. You always say that I am the Beatles leader. The truth is that without you there would be no Beatles and not even me."_

_Paul didn’t really know what to answer. He had so many things to say, things that agreed with John, things that disagreed with John, things that were delighted with what John said, so many things that in the end Paul chose to be silent, just looking at John and the suffering expression of his face. Paul saw the fear and the pain hidden anywhere: behind his clear eyes, in the corner of his lips, in the way his aquiline nose had slightly curled... He recognized all of this so easily, for it was what gripped his heart to the idea of leaving the boys and John. It was one of the reasons why he had communicated the terrible news to John on the phone. If he had seen him so disturbed, he would no longer have the strength to leave him._

_But now John was there, trying to convince him to change his mind and stay with him, one step away from begging not to leave him as everyone else did._

_"And my father?"_

_"You have to deal with it once and for all, Paul, I'm sure he’ll understand. I'm not an expert about fathers, you know, but I've heard that some of them want their children to be happy and I think your father is among them. He’ll understand that this... " he said, pointing at the building behind them, "This will never make you happy. While the band and I will. And you must have the courage to do it, Paul, you have to come with me, get out of here and take what you want. What we fucking want."_

_Paul bowed his head, looking at the abandoned broom next to his feet. It lay there, lifeless, like the desire Paul had to leave John and he was happy that his friend had come to save him from his destiny. Or perhaps from what was up against his destiny, which now more than ever Paul knew he was John and the Beatles. And his father and anyone else would simply have to accept it, because that was his decision and henceforth he wouldn’t change his mind for any reason in the world._

_"Fuck, John, what are we waiting for?" he said, with a great smile on his lips._

_John finally let himself go, imitating his expression, and unknowingly clenched Paul's shirt in his hand. He felt he wanted to embrace him, to let him know how much he appreciated, how much he was making him happy. But his pride stopped him, pointing out that he had already been sufficiently humiliated with that sappy speech and that for today could be enough._

_So he nodded, unable to stop smiling: "Let's go."_

_The next instant Paul was helping John climb on the wall and when his friend was safe at the top, he reached out to help Paul do the same. Paul looked at him for a moment, thinking that after that he could no longer go back. Never again. But even before he noticed, his hand had flipped forward and tightened John’s, which raised him until Paul sat next to him._

_And before they could jump and run away, to a future they had always dreamed of, John allowed the delightful whim to hit Paul's shoulder with a punch._

_"Hey, what was that for?" Paul asked, outraged._

_"This is to have made me worry, stupid bloody idiot." John answered with a grinning smile, "Woe to you if you try to abandon me again."_

_Paul rubbed his shoulder slightly, then laughed: "Fair enough."_

_After a last smile, John jumped and looked at Paul from below, the expression of his face allowed a tremendous wait._

_Perhaps Paul, in the end, was more courageous than he himself thought, because to follow John in every aspect of their life, courage had always been needed, a huge amount of courage._

_And with that thought, Paul jumped._

_( 1)- In 1961 Paul had a job for a while at Massey&Coggins’, which made motors in Liverpool. He was paid about 7 pounds a week.  (Source: Anthology)_

_( 2)- A real ultimatum John gave to Paul. _

_( 3)- Jurgen’s quote is taken from here: <https://www.beatlesbible.com/1961/09/30/john-lennon-paul-mccartney-travel-paris/>_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, this is the last chapter with flashback. From the next one we're going to focus about John and Paul in Paris. Yay.  
> The flashback of this chapter is about 2 real events that happened. The first is John giving his ultimatum to Paul about the band and the second is about John going to pick up Paul from his job. Actually he went with George too, but this is just a little licence I took because I need them to be alone.   
> However, thank you very much for all the lovely comments. I want to cry of joy everytime I read one. :3   
> And also thank you to sherlocked221 and to whydontwedoitontheinternet, two lovely ladies.   
> If you have tumblr, [this](http://letitmclennon.tumblr.com/) is my blog, I also started the Ask box. So if you want to ask anything, feel free to do it. :)  
> Next chapter will be Milkshakes.   
> Bye


	10. Milk shakes

 

"You have to listen that, Paul, in 1912, a Parisian tailor, Reichelt, tried to fly by throwing himself down from the tower with a cloak suitable to form wings, and crashed in front of a large crowd. According to the autopsy, he died by heart attack even before touching the ground."

John read the anecdote on the little guide they had bought the day they decided to stay in Paris all week. They needed a map especially to avoid getting lost and risk getting stuck in another endless stairway like the one they climbed to Montmartre. Thanks to the guide, among other things, they found that you could climb the hillside in a cable car, and the reason why John didn’t beat the shit out of Paul for having wear him out with that challenge was still a sort of mystery.

Now, however, John found himself laughing for what he had just read about the guide, because tragically, the story was terribly funny.

"How wacky are these French guys, huh, Paul?" he asked, looking at his friend.

That morning, they had decided to go and see closely that heap of ironcalled Eiffel Tower. And now they were there,admiring it from the bottom, watching his long curve rising upwards. However Paul seemed lost. He was staring at the tip touching the clear sky, but it was as if his head was somewhere else and not there with John; maybe his mind was just at the top of that tower. He didn’t even laugh at his joke, and Paul usually laughed when John told some jokes. It was delightful, not because there was someone who was really listening to his shit and appreciating it, but rather for the mild feeling John felt watching Paul laugh because of him. Knowing that he had this power over him and he made him feel so good, causing that adorable laugh, was something John loved too much. It made him feel important, reassured him because he knew that somebody, _Paul_ , cared very much about him. In short, when his self-esteem went down to the historical minimums, it was enough to go to Paul, make a couple of smirks and his expression immediately brought John's self-esteem to acceptable levels.

So now that Paul had totally ignored him, John frowned.

"Paul, are you still with us?" John asked, finally punching him on his side.

Paul lost a bit of balance and shook his head, looking back at John.

"What?"

John chuckled, "You were a bit in the clouds. I just read a funny story and you, like the emeritus daft you are, missed it."

"Oh sorry. Could you read it again for me?" He asked with begging eyes,"I swear I'll laugh as never before."

"No way. Read it on your own, this train has gone, my dear."John said, pushing the guide on his chest,"MayI know what’s the matter with you? You have been like this for a few days now."

"Sorry, John, I'm just a little overthinking."

"That I noticed, I’d like to understand why for now."

Paul blushed lightly and turned his gaze away, beginning to leaf through the guide John gave him: "Nothing important, don’t worry."

The truth was that he couldn’t do it anymore, he was hating and loving this trip. He liked to sleep every night next to John and hated to stay away from him in bed, unable to approach him to hold him in his arms or pass his hand through his hair. Some nights he’d wait John to fall asleep just to try to touch him during his sleep, just touching his cheeks or hair, nothing more. But then the fear that John would wake up and surprise him, would stop his hand a few inches and Paul would turn to the other side, cursing himself several times.

He also loved to walk with him, sit at the tables to eat something, and he hated not to hold his hand in front of everyone. He loved and hated John, too, because he drove Paul crazy just by being himself and, although he was a smart lad, he didn’t notice the effect he had on Paul, who now could no longer hold himself as before that trip. Perhaps it was also fault of that city, of those majestic monuments, of those characteristic alleys that made its defenses collapsed. It was like they were always whispering to him to talk to John, open his heart once and for all: _fuck, Paul, be a man!!_

It was normal if a person, with all these thoughts in his head, would fall into distraction often and willingly. And even if he committed to dedicating himself totally to John, focusing on him alone, it would have been counterproductive. The thousand emotions that fluttered in him would surely push him to do something rash, like grabbing the collar of John’s leather jacket, drawing it to him, telling him, "Fuck, John, I'm crazy for you" and then kissing him in front of everyone. And no, it wasn’t okay because this meant ruining everything. Paul, on the other hand, wanted to do things calmly, thinking about it, carefully choosing the words to use, because that was the hardest talk he would have done throughout his life.

"But, Paul." John began to say.

However, before he could go on with whatever he was about to say, Paul looked around and grabbed him by the wrist: "Hey, why don’t we eat, John? I'm starving."

And he began dragging him to a small stand not far from there. John didn’t let himself be tricked so easily and he took Paul's arm in his hand, tightening it forcefully and stopping his pace.

"Paul, if there was something wrong, you would tell me, right?"

Paul looked into his eyes, sincerely concerned, every single stretch of John's face mirrored this feeling, and he couldn’t help but hold his breath uncomfortable. Uncomfortable because when John looked at him, _damn it!_ , he let him in confusion and he didn’t understand anything else. It was as if John was stripping him and literally opening in two to look for an answer at the deepestpoint in his soul, where there was only John. And Paul didn’t want it, not yet.

He wasn’t ready.

"Su-sure I'll tell you."

John nodded and hisfrowning expression relaxed a little, as did his grip on Paul's arm. Then he bent his head down, unable to hide a slight reddened of his cheeks.

"I know sometimes, maybe often, I'm such a jerk, but you can tell me everything, you know?"

"Yeah, ta, John." Paul said, trying to smile, that was, though, suffered.

John looked at him for a moment, before nodding with an uncertain move, indicating that he wasn’t fully convinced by Paul's words. Despite this, he followed him, thinking that when Paul was ready to talk to him about whatever it was disturbing him, he would do it without any fear.

However, that left him a bitter taste in his mouth; very often, almost always in fact, he could figure out what he was going through Paul's head, without need for words. A simple exchange of glances was enough and when it happened, John was always left stunned. He had never had this kind of understanding with someone and the first time he had been disturbed. How could he understand so quickly, so clearly another person, without talking? Yet it was so, Paul was an open book, ready to be leafed through by John and vice versa. He had never been so good, so comfortable with people who weren’t Paul. Now, however, there was this haze that prevented him from being in tune with Paul and helping him, and John couldn’t really find out why, nor if that illusion was in Paul's head or in his own.

Maybe Paul wasn’t having fun. Or was it because of the new haircut? Perhaps Paul was afraid that with that cut wouldn’t be as beautiful as before. But no, it couldn’t be! No matter how vain Paul might be, and _fuck!_ if he was, but John knew he was still charming, he knew that the girls were still looking at him maliciously, and John was also well aware that his charm hadn’t been badly compromised.

No, this wasn’t what was disturbing his friend.

When they arrived at the stand, they ate two hamburgers in silence, sitting at a small table, immersed in that green spot running along on one side of the Eiffel Tower. There was also a pond a little further away, in which some of the white feathered ducks dived whenever tourists were throwing bread crumbs. On the flowerbeds, however, blackbirds were searching for their own food in the grass.

Paul looked at them apatically, finally deciding to throw some crumbs from his hamburger bread. He seemed to have fallen again in that world of thoughts and feelings where John couldn’t reach him. Yet John wanted to bring Paul back to him and maybe he knew how to do it. He certainly didn’t want to go in the background of those stupid birds!

So he let Paul take care of the blackbirds surrounding him, grateful that someone would think about them every now and then, and got up from the table. He reached the small stand with the intention of buying something to distract him from whatever it was tormenting him, and looking at the menu, John had no doubt about what to buy.

"Here." he said a few minutes later, putting the glass in front of his friend.

Paul blinked and looked surprised the paleyellow liquid inside the glass and then John: "What is it?"

"A milkshake?" John tucked a straw in, so that Paul could drink it.

"Did you buy me a milkshake?" He asked, staring at the glass in front of him.

"So it seems. And to be precise, it’s a banana milkshake. There was only this flavor left, sorry." John justified, shrugging.

"Why?"

"Evidently tourists don’t like bananas, dunno."

But Paul shook his head softly, for it wasn’t exactly what he meant: "No, why did you buy me a milkshake?"

"You do like milk, don’t you? Well, there's milk in the milkshake. At least I think so."John said as he drew the glassnear Paul, as if to say, "Shut up and fucking drink!"

Paul raised a skeptical eyebrow: "And that would be a valid reason to buy me a milkshake?"

"No, but at least now you've turned your attention off those fucking birds and you're talking to me." John blurted out, a bit nervous.

Not that he was angry with Paul, he simply didn’t bear that his attention was so far from him when it came to their journey.

"Oh." Paul gasped, looking embarrassed at the glass, "Sorry, John."

"No problem. The important thing is that you’ll be all for me tomorrow. Completely."

"Tomorrow?" Paul repeated, looking back at his friend.

"Yeah, tomorrow, Paul, tomorrow is the main reason for this holiday, or maybe you've forgotten it?" He asked, frowning and crossing his arms.

Fucking hell! Paul had been so caught up by his feelings and doubts and thoughts that he had completely forgotten that the next day would have been John's birthday. And what was he supposed to do now? He hadn’t even bought a gift. He would have been really a shitty friend since John was spending all that money for him, and Paul not only hadn’t bought a bloody gift, but he had almost forgotten it. What kind of friend was he? And how could he expect to become the special person for John if he behaved like this?

He was the scum among John’s friends, that was it. He didn’t deserve his friendship.

"No, I haven’t." Paul laughed, trying to look cool, "I promise tomorrow I'll be a little more companionship."

"A little isn’t enough."

"Then I swear I'll be the perfect traveling companion." he solemnly proclaimed with one hand on his heart and a slight smile on his lips.

And he would be really so, it was a promise not only to John, but also and above all to himself. He wanted to deserve John, before opening his heart.

"Agree. I write this one down, huh?"

"Write down whatever you fucking want, John. Me, I am a man of words."

John smiled to himself and looked at him amused as he drank his milkshake. He complimented himself for finally bringing a smile on Paul’s face, as well as milk whiskers upon his upper lip now.

It was a power he knew to handle really well and that, let's face it, thrilled him. Bringing back a smile, one of the sincere ones, those whichreach the ears and lighten the eyes with the incredible glow of happiness, was something John would never give up. For all the beers, the guitars, the girls of the world.

"Anyway, no need to worry, Paul."

Paul looked up, with the straw hanging from his mouth, "What?"

"About hair. Dot will still like you with this cut."

Paul stared at him for a second, then laughed heartedly and John felt something in him, maybe his brain or heart or some other part inside his body,melting like snow in the sun, becoming liquid and sweet like that milkshakehe had bought for Paul. And that forced him to continue to look at Paul laughing, happy to have obtained what he wanted and at the same time astonished, amazed by the vision as other times, and yet in a different way. He knew, indeed, he felt something strange and John didn’t know what it was.

However, when they later made their way into the tree-lined avenues of Trocadéro Gardens, a stone's throw away from the Eiffel Tower, John realized that he didn’t care to know what was driving him crazy. All that mattered now was how Paul admired charmed the surrounding environment, the fountains with water games and the gardens around. Paul, like John, had never seen all that green at one time.

Okay, maybe it wasn’t just green. In fact, being October the autumn month for excellence, the trees had magically colored with red, orange and yellow, bringing some warmth in the days that gradually became colder. John had always thought that nature wanted to postpone the cold as long as possible. So the trees stored the heat of summer and used it, in the form of warm-colored dresses, to cheer up people during the melancholy autumn. And judging by the many expressions of Paul's wonder, Mother Nature was fucking succeeding.

For a moment, that morning, John had thought that Paul wasn’t having fun on this trip with him. If it wasn’t the new haircut, then this was really the only reason it could explain his bad mood. But now he could see that it wasn’t about this either. He noticed it from the little wrinkles of expression that appeared around Paul’s eyes when he smiled, from the dimples on his cheeks, as his mouth widened enraptured, as his hands hastened to grab the camera to immortalize each moment of that journey: a tree-lined avenue with a carpet of yellow leaves that sounded softly when they were moved by tourists feet, or a dove perched on a statue, resting quietly, or when he was trying to capture the lively water games of the fountains.

Yes. Paul was having fun.

Although John was so busy staring at him and not understanding what was happening to himself, at least he was certain that Paul's mood didn’t depend on either his hair or the fact that he wasn’t enjoying himself.

So what was that threw him in that mood in the last few days? Why wouldn’t Paul share with him anything that was tormenting him?

Why?

***

Why?  Why? _Why_?

A single question bouncing from side to side of his head, even that night, while John was lying on his bed, staring at Paul at his side.

After a stroll in Trocadéro's gardens and waiting for the day to become night, they decided to eat and drink something nearby, admiring the panorama of the illuminated Eiffel Tower that dominated Paris with majesty.

How many beautiful things has John already found in that city? How many wonderful flavors and smells and views?

And above all… how much were they driving himcrazy?

He was really a total jerk because... It was a strange and stupid thing, very stupid to think but... it was as if, to John’s blind eyes,Paul was another person in that moment. Or another John was watching Paul right now, lying next to him.

It was as if John saw him for the first time, but he was always Paul. The good old Paul, with a new haircut, of course, and a small fringe in front of his eyes that John's hand wished to move so much. Surely if Paul woke up, it would bother him. And he had two soft cheeks with that skin, maybe smooth ( _maybe_ , of course, because John couldn’t really know) but definitely white, white like milk. Probably it smelled also like milk, smell of milk or banana milkshake. It was a more plausible hypothesis since John had bought him a banana milkshake that morning. Fuck! John just wanted to rub his nose right there, to finally give an answer to his doubt.

And then... then, bloody hell, there were those lips, with their lively pink, their perfect shape, so plump, so soft. Or at least it seemed like that. They were lips who had tasted those of many girls and it seemed almost unfair that John, his best mate, who knew all about Paul, much more than any stupid bird he had, hadn’t even had a fucking chance to taste them and feel how they move on his, if they were so attractive as they seemed...

His daring stream of consciousness suddenly stopped when John realized that his hand was dangerously close to Paul's face.

_Stupid, fuckin' hand, what the fuck are you doing there?_

And his bloody heart was anxious and happy, wishing that contact as if it had to do with the latest guitar model. Oh God, he was crazy, it must have been so. John immediately withdrew his hand, securely, beside his body, where it couldn’t get in trouble. After that he devoted himself to the task of thinking about what he had done or almost done.

Caressing Paul? _Wanting_ to caress Paul? It must have been a joke, right?

He had to be tired from the journey, John thought. Perhaps all that walking had melted his brain, whipped it with bananas, and he was now totally unable to understand and take action. That was the only possible explanation.

He couldn’t have wanted it because...

Why?

Well, because he just couldn’t. Because Paul was a lad. Or maybe because Paul was Paul and John didn’t want to ruin the only good thing that had happened to him in life.

Wait, what was he thinking? No, no, no, no. He couldn’t want Paul because he was a lad and John wasn’t like that. He had never been, he would never have been, never and ever...

And as he shook his head and tried to cling to his conviction, Paul moved in his sleep, just a little closer, bowing his head toward John, and his arm moved forward, leaning against John's side. That touch had appeared to John's eyes as a slow-moving scene. He could have avoided it, if he wanted, simply moving back on the bed. But he hadn’t done it, and now Paul was there, his hair on John's nose and his arm on his side, the contactburning like the most devastating fire.

John hadn’t moved because he had fervently waited for it and wished.

" _Shit_!" He almost shouted, waking Paul out of his sleep, and immediately moved away from his friend.

"John, what's going on?" Paul asked, his sleepy voice, his eyes half-closed, looking worried at the other lad’s gaze.

"Fuckin’ nothing!"

John's answer was almost a snarl and the minute after John was getting up from the bed, headed for the chair, under Paul's surprised and upset look.

"But, John-"

"Fuck, Paul, leave me alone." John blurted, dropping himself on the armchair, crouching in order not to dissipate heat, crouching because he was afraid of losing himself once and for all, because what had happened, what he had felt was just a symptom of how he was now out of his mind.

And it was all fault of stupid fucking Paris. Cursed the day he had decided to stay in that city.

"John?"

No reply.

"John?"

Paul's voice became weaker, trying to get an answer from his friend, but John didn’t say anything. Instead, he closed his eyes, trying to concentrate on sleeping, ignoring Paul, ignoring his anger toward himself, toward Paul, Paris, and all the French.

He didn’t even know why he was so angry. It had been a simple movement during sleep, an unwanted, unconscious, casual movement, yet John became devastated in a way he couldn’t figure out whether it was positive or negative.

There was only one thing he was sure of, John thought as he heard Paul return to lie on the bed, throwing in the towel in the attempt to get some explanation from John.

_No more milkshakes for Paul!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, first chapter without flashbacks. Just Paul and John in Paris. And milkshakes, of course, we all know John bought him all the milkshakes Paul wanted. <3  
> AAAnd maybe are we arrived at an important moment of the story? I think we are.  
> I really want to thank my beta reader, sherlocked221, and whydontwedoitontheinternet, because she made a beautiful drawing about this chapter. You can see it on my blog, [here](http://letitmclennon.tumblr.com/).  
> Next chapter will be Duet. :3  
> See ya all!


	11. Duet

 

The night of his twenty-first birthday was very agitated for John. His back hurt so incredibly, due to the uncomfortable position on that small armchair. He had an annoying headache, his neck was all aching and his legs were tingling.

Yet there was something that made him feel good, soothed him and made him forget all his physical pains. It was a scent that wrapped him like a velvety blanket, a strange musky fragrance with a sweet aftertaste, as sweet as milk. Or like a milkshake.

John stirred a little in his sleep, while in his dream a familiar-looking lad accidentally poured some banana milkshake on his own leather jacket and giggled.

"You’re such a clod, Paul."

_Paul!_

John opened his eyes, his heart trembling fiercely in his chest. He took a few seconds to blink, focus and recognize what was around him: his hotel room.

It was a dream or maybe just a memory, because now that he thought about it, the day before Paul really poured some milkshake on his jacket, during a stupid little scene in which he was loafing around with the straw: a bit of the liquid still in it slipped on his leather jacket. Fortunately, a simple handkerchief was enough to get rid of any trace, but the smell remained.

Wait a minute…

Why was Paul's jacket on top of him? Wasn’t John supposed to be under the covers of his bed?

No, he wasn’t, because the night before he moved to the armchair, after that little incident with Paul. Now, with his well rested mind, despite the uncomfortable position, John realized that perhaps his reaction had been a little exaggerated. After all, Paul had moved unconsciously to him. It hadn’t been intentional.

It hadn’t been at all.

How many times in Liverpool did he wake up too close to Paul, spooning him or with Paul huddled under his arm? He had lost count. Not that he was counting them, not at all. It was just that, actually, he knew by now they were many.

So yes, he exaggerated becoming so upset. All that happened because he was tired, and above all because he was awake and watched with open eyes at the movement of Paul coming closer to him slowly. He also knew he treated Paul badly; he was sure he had been disappointed by the rude manner in which John had addressed him, how he had dismissed him and then ignored him. And if there was one thing John learned from all these years with Paul, it was he didn’t like being ignored, especially by John. Usually Paul was so let down that he wouldn’t talk to him for a couple of days, which was the time it took John to return to his usual mood and start again to pay his attention to Paul.

So now John would have to find a way to make him understand that he knew he had been a total asshole the night before, that he didn’t want to react like that and that, on his birthday, he wouldn’t ignore him because Paul promised him to dedicate all his attention to it.

Therefore, still wrapped in the warmth of Paul's jacket and his smell, two things that encouraged him to continue his intent, John rose from his chair and looked towards the bed.

But there, where Paul's body should have been, huddled under the covers, there was nothing.

_Where the fuck was Paul?_

***

Damn. What a fucking idiot was he?

How, how could he have switched his jacket with John's? He had certainly been in a hurry to get out of the room he shared with John, before his friend woke up.

That morning, as soon as he was awake, the memories of the night before had struck him like a bucket of icy water, leaving him still perplexed and sorry. Perplexed because he didn’t really understand what happened; sorry because whatever he had done, he annoyed John. And he hated being the cause of his bad mood.

After his fit of anger John settled down to sleep on the armchair, totally ignoring Paul and his attempts at clarification. That being the case, Paul decided to give up trying to pull out some explanations from John's mouth, and he went back to sleep. Or at least he tried to. He spent at least an hour sleepless, looking at John moving occasionally on the armchair to find a better position. Then his friend finally fell asleep and Paul decided that staying there, staring at him in silence, would be useless. One might as well try to sleep a little and think about what to do with sunlight and rested limbs.

Too bad that with the sunlight, the fear arrived, the fear that any problem John had, this also would be related to Paul and then involved another John’s violent outburst that Paul wasn’t willing to suffer. He didn’t want an eventual hard fight with John to be the main memory of that trip. Paul wished that, when in the future he would have reconsidered that trip, he would remember only beautiful, happy moments, like John buying him a milkshake to bring back the smile on his lips, or Paul who always woke up five minutes before John, so to be able to look at him in silence, without the knowledge of the sleeping beauty.

To avoid all that unpleasantness would have followed John's awakening, Paul quickly washed and grabbed John's guide and jacket and then went out.

And now he was sitting at a cafe on the Champs-Élysées, watching the people walking quietly on the lively Avenue. The coffee he had drunk was really horrible, but somehow he enjoyed it. Or rather, John had made it pleasant, because even if Paul left him on the chair, John was more present than ever, next to him.

The fact was that, before leaving the room, Paul had taken what he thought was John's jacket and had used it as a blanket for his friend, who was slightly shaken by cold chills. In fact, he didn’t really need a fucking cold to make his mood worse. However, as soon as he was out of the hotel, Paul realized that what he was wearing now wasn’t his own jacket, but it belonged to John. He knew it when he put the cigarettes out of his pocket, and only then did he realize that the smell that surrounded him, however familiar, wasn’t his. It was a very peculiar smell, pungent and strong, yet for him it was the sweetest fragrance in the world, the sweetest and most reassuring, the one that tasted like home, music, love.

John's smell.

He tightened his jacket more to his body, while he thought he was sorry to leave John without even a note. But he also knew that John needed some time to be alone and cool off about whatever had freaked him the night before.

And maybe even Paul had to.

***

_Alone_. John was completely alone in that room. Paul wasn’t there and who knows where he was at that moment.

As soon as he noticed his absence, John jumped up. He looked for him in the bathroom, but even that, like the bed, was empty. Then he rushed down the corridor and down the stairs to the street outside, looking right and left, looking for a silly, familiar dark-haired head. But Paul wasn’t there.

Sad and angry, he made his way back into the pension, where the owner made him understand by gestures and a French version of the holy language of Her Majesty, that his buddy went out that morning.

_Stupid, fucking Paul!_

In the end John returned to his room and for the absolute frustration he felt at that moment, he kicked the chair where he had slept that night, before throwing himself onto the bed.

Where was Paul?

Where the hell was he, all alone, with his weak French speaking, with John’s jacket and above all, with his bloody cigarettes?

If he really had to be a jerk and leave John by himself in that small hotel room, he could at least have been careful in getting the right jacket. But no, he had been a fucking idiot in this too, exchanging their two jackets and leaving John his horrible cigarettes.

_Fuck, Paul, a little more attention is too much to ask, isn’t it?_

John snorted, turning on his stomach and hiding his face in the mattress. He didn’t want to admit it, because he was too angry with Paul, but he knew that even this anger was mainly due to his worry; worry that was beginning to settle in him, with the sinuous movements of a snake, wrapping him with his cold coils, injecting his poison, or all the possible tragedies that could happen to Paul.

And if someone noticed his tourist look and decided to rob him, like that silly blonde girl in the pub? It was a possibility. After all he had already had an example and John had managed to avoid the catastrophe just in time.

Or, what if Paul hadn’t had enough money and got stuck somewhere? How could he come back to John? Or warn him?

Provided that he wanted to come back to John. For fuck’s sake, and if he didn’t come back, what would John do? He didn’t know where to start looking for him, Paris was a big city, he couldn’t even find Paul anymore. And of course, he couldn’t return to Liverpool without the first-born of McCartney's house. It would be the right time for old Jim to cut off his head.

John shook his head violently. He was definitely exaggerating. Perhaps Paul only went out to get him a present, since it wasn’t difficult to understand that Paul lied the day before. _Bloody bastard!_

So it was a matter of minutes before Paul returned to the hotel, with a nice present for John in his hands, in a beautiful paper bag with the shop sign in red types.

Yet, there was still that unpleasant and at the same time sweet feeling that oppressed his chest and made his legs and hands tremble, to the idea that something bad could happen to Paul.

Why did he feel that way?

Why did he worry so much?

***

Paul bit his thumbnail in a gesture of total nervousness. Although he was convinced of what he had done, now the consequences of that gesture were becoming clearer to him.

What had he done? Surely John was furious by now. Knowing him, his first reaction would be to insult him for too much anger. And then, John would realize that he was actually just worried about Paul, imagining the worst scenarios with his mind.

It was something that not everyone expected from John, for his hard armor that he wore from morning to night. But Paul glimpsed John's true soul more than once. Between the cracks of that armor he saw that part of John dominated by his insecurity. And that was why John cared so much for his friends, sometimes excessively. As if anything could push away his loved ones from him. As if those people weren’t able to take care of themselves, since they were young people, yes, but grown up too.

Didn’t John know that Paul would never leave him forever? Didn’t he know that Paul would always come back to him, even if there was the most insurmountable obstacle to draw them apart, the highest mountain, the largest ocean?

No. Just as Paul was sure John was worried about him, he was also convinced that he really didn’t know anything about this.

John didn’t know because being aware of it opened up a whole series of issues that John wasn’t ready to face, and Paul wondered if he would ever be by now. The thought made him suffer deeply, but Paul would never lose hope that one day, not far away maybe, he would finally be able to talk to John and give him his heart. The risk that John's hand could close and crush it, reducing it to a warm, red and throbbing mush was constantly present and was Paul's greatest fear. But everyone knows that fear is only the best weapon of our most bitter enemy: ourselves. It’s our limit and only we can overcome it.

So Paul would have dealt with the issue with John, when both would have been ready, but not that day, not on John's birthday.

John's birthday?

_John's birthday, fuck!_

It was today. Paul had been so taken by what happened the night before, that he forgot his promise to John and what was more serious, he still hadn’t a fucking present. He had to hurry up once and for all.

He got up from his chair and dived into the crowd happily trotting along the Avenue.

He would find a present for John and maybe, _maybe_ , if he had played his cards well, he could use it as an excuse to avoid a fight with John on his twenty-first birthday.

Although he didn’t think he would ever be able to lie to John again. If he told him a lie, John would notice and Paul was almost certain that his mate guessed that he lied the day before.

Then when they would meet again and John would ask, "Why did you leave?", what would Paul’s answer be?

"Because I wanted to leave you on your own to face what tormented you last night?"

"Because I wanted you to reflect on what you did?"

"Because I was afraid?"

Why had he left?

***

The last two hours had been spent with John who hadn’t moved from the chair he had settled on, after spending the whole morning changing position, from the mattress, then standing, walking around the room, and still down the street to look for Paul in vain. In the end he decided to stay in the hotel, just in case Paul came back: it could happen at any moment and John would be there.

At lunchtime, however, Paul hadn’t returned yet and at that point John realized that Paul hadn’t really gone out to get him his present. There had to be some other reason, which almost certainly had to do with the way John treated him the night before. And how could he blame him? John had been such a jerk towards Paul. It was quite obvious that Paul was upset, since John hadn’t even bothered to explain why he was behaving that way with him. If he was in his shoes, even John would avoid himself. Paul suffered his constant mood’s swings, the sudden impulses of anger, he suffered anything, answering back most of the time, or simply listening in silence, but in any case Paul was always next to him.

How much patience could Paul have with him?

An immense patience and let's face it, even a great affection. Yet even these things had limits, John was aware that they weren’t endless. It couldn’t be otherwise. He still couldn’t understand how Paul was still by his side. And maybe the night before was the last straw and Paul simply told him to go to hell, deciding to enjoy the rest of the trip alone, in peace.

But John didn’t want to. He never wanted Paul to leave him alone.

Was it really for this reason that he was gone?

As much as it could be understandable, and John understood it well, he felt deep down inside that this wasn’t the reason. There had to be something else.

John sighed sadly, almost unconsciously gripping Paul's jacket, abandoned right there on the armchair, and put it on, being welcomed again by his friend's smell.

How much he wanted Paul to be there with him, to apologize, to hug him and-

Hug him?

Like the night before?

The question made his heart skip a beat and it seemed strangely agitated. John tightened the jacket to his body, as if looking for the answer among the fibers of the fabric soaked with Paul's smell. Fortunately, or unfortunately he found the answer.

No, not like the night before.

John really wanted to hug him and this time they both should have their eyes open and be very aware of what was happening, how the arms of one tighten the other, closer to his body. He wanted to hug him, yes, hold him tightly, so as to take his breath away and then... Wait!

What had he just thought?

Did he want to hug Paul?

Bloody hell.

Indeed no, _fucking hell_!

What kind of desire was this?

And why was it born in him now?

But the more he thought about it, the more John realized that it wasn’t a simple desire or a simple whim. It was a real craving, as if his life depended on it, his life and his happiness were held in his best friend’s embrace. John must have gone crazy, he must have lost his mind. Several times during that trip he had considered this hypothesis, but now it was evident. And strangely, John had no intention of recovering his sanity.

He only thought that the violent realization of such a desire deserved to the full the redness that was now coloring his cheeks and yes, _God_ , even a good swear.

_"Oh, fuck."_

***

Paul looked around as he walked along the Avenue. It was the most famous avenue in Paris, as well as a charming place, with wide sidewalks surrounded by flower beds and chestnut trees. However it wasn’t exactly the best place to look for a gift for John. Or at least a gift that would fit Paul's limited financial possibilities. There were mostly major French brands shops and many cinemas, restaurants and cafes to eat.

Speaking of eating... He wondered if John managed to recover something for himself. Paul hoped he wasn’t starving, which it would fuel his guilt, and that he drew something from the stocks they kept for possible hunger attacks in the middle of the night, which, given their young age, wasn’t just a possibility. It was a guarantee.

However, how could he be so sure that John stayed in the hotel? Wouldn’t it be more _Lennon-ish_ not to give a shit about Paul and go out on his own, happy not to have to take care of the lad for once, free to do and eat what he wanted and, _God_ , pick up the first French bird who would come under fire and fuck her? Maybe in that same bed they shared.

Paul shuddered at the thought.

No, John wouldn’t do it. He would wait for Paul in his room because he knew that sooner or later Paul would come back to him. He would wait impatiently for him to give him his lecture, because yes, Paul expected a good lecture this time. Beyond the fact that he had every reason in the world to leave John by himself, after his unmotivated outburst, to him Paul was as if he had vanished before John woke up, without even a miserable note. And all this, after his promise to not let him worry anymore and that he would be the perfect traveling companion on his birthday. But how could Paul keep him company, if he was two whole, huge neighborhoods away from John?

He sighed resignedly, calling himself a fool. By now it was late afternoon. The warm red light of the sun colored the avenue, giving it an enchanting look; Paul wanted to walk more, maybe even reach the Arc de Triomphe, but he had left John alone for more than enough time.

It was time to get back to him, not until finding a gift for John, something that might not have lasted for a long time, but that John would have liked, something that would have helped Paul to be forgiven by John.

***

It was a strange feeling.

Realize to feel certain _things_ and want to do other things with his best mate.

At first it was a simple tingling that had finally broken his skin into goose bumps. John hated it, he hated the tingles, the chills and all those little sensations that made his skin quiver. Yet somehow this feeling was pleasant. Perhaps because the heat that was spreading inside him was so fucking amazing that it pushed away all the other annoying effects that such a realization would involve.

The sun was setting now, letting its golden rays enter the hotel room. John was left for... he didn’t even know how long, curled up in his chair, numb from what he'd just discovered. His mind was too busy creating delightful scenes to worry about everything that happened outside of that body. In his mind there were scenes where Paul would come back to him and John would run to hug him, then Paul would hug him back and _oh_ , holy heaven, he would kiss him, fucking kiss him! And when the mental film ended, his heart winced anxiously, clamoring for an encore. Then the scene started again, and then again and again and John knew he had a silly, stupid smile on his face, but he couldn’t hold it back in any way. His feeling was too enchanting to his senses and he had to, he had to show it somehow, even though there was nobody else in the room who could see it. It was just that he wanted to feel the reaction of his body to the possibility that something like this could happen, one day, not far away, who knows...

Something unique and so sweet, so shocking-

Damn. What was happening to him?

_Relax, John._

He absolutely had to calm down because he was letting himself be carried away by the new sensation without even first talking to Paul. _Paul_ , also known as the one who would have really been shocked by this whole weird situation.

_It's not weird_ , John corrected himself.

All right, but anyway it was strange, because it was John the strange one. He knew how it would end. He knew that when he wanted something so desperately, and for now it seemed to be something that John was _dying_ to try, there was nothing that could hold him back. He knew he would use the wrong words, he knew that maybe he wouldn’t even speak, maybe he would just act and Paul would be scared, before turning him away and ending that relationship that only now John could see how far it was dangerously gone.

"Fuck!" He cursed again and then hid his face in his hands, while all his sweet emotions that shook him until a few minutes ago were transformed into a single feeling of depressing despondency.

John would ruin everything as always.

John would lose Paul, his best mate, the companion of a thousand adventures, the boy who-

The sound of the door opening suddenly aroused him from his tormenting thoughts and John looked up. He felt his face flushed and his eyes wet, while his heart was beating faster hoping to see the only person John wanted to see at that moment.

"Paul?"

His was only a faint whisper, but it was enough for the newcomer to hear him and lift his head, placing on him those eyes that John knew very well.

"Hi, John."

John jumped up, while Paul approached him and when he was in front of him, he handed him a paper bag, with the name of a Parisian cafe in red types.

"Happy birthday."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 11 is a duet, because we have John and Paul separated from each other. Each one with their own thoughts and realisations.   
> Maybe it's a bit slow but it was necessary at this point of the story.   
> As always I want to thank sherlocked221 and whydontwedoitontheinternet. You girls are great.   
> And thank you to everyone who's reading the story. :3   
> I link you the tumblr blog if you want to ask anything: [here](http://letitmclennon.tumblr.com/).  
> And see you next tuesday with chap12, Happy birthday.


	12. Happy birthday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is a chapter about a birthday, and I wanted to say a very (late) happy birthday to Mac! It was last Friday, but hey, this chapter is for you and your lovely words. :D

"Happy birthday, John."

John, totally shocked, looked at the young lad standing in front of him, handing him a little bag. He was shocked by what he had just discovered about himself, and because he didn’t really know how to behave in a situation that was so new to him, and he hated not knowing what to say or do.

"Happy birthday?" he repeated, unable to hide the annoyance that stung his throat and his fingertips.

Not that he wasn’t happy to see him. No, John had never been so happy to see Paul, Paul who was fine, Paul with him. Nonetheless, he couldn’t ignore the fact that the boy made him worry with his sudden disappearance, without even warning.

Paul lowered his hand, noticing that John didn’t seem to have any intention of taking the gift. Indeed, his expression of irritated Lennon didn’t bode anything good.

"Yes, today is your birthday and you know how it works, we usually say _happy birthday_ to the birthday boy." he explained, trying to smile, in spite of the unease he felt under John’s stare.

"Of course, is it also customary to disappear and let the birthday boy worry to death?" his friend replied, not at all amused, putting his hands on his hips, "Or is it just your habit?"

Paul stirred his lips: although he had to admit that John was right, he didn’t like the tone of his voice; he didn’t like it because that particular tone of voice always pulled out the worst of him, of them.

"Oh come on, John, we're in Paris in the 60s, not in the trenches during the First World War."

He tried to laugh about it before turning to get to the bed, but evidently he made another mistake both in words and gestures, because John grabbed him by the arm and brought him abruptly back to his previous position, standing in front of him. A gesture that seemed to say to him, "No more joking, no more escaping, stay here and face whatever I have to tell you."

"We are in a big foreign city and you are a jerk and a naive. You know what criminals do to someone clumsy like you?"

Paul frowned, quite annoyed at what his friend had just said: "Hey, measure your words now, I’m getting tired of all this."

"Ah, you’re getting tired? Please, fucking remember who saved your precious drunken ass from that slut the other night? Who woke up today finding himself alone, while his traveling companion was who knows where? Who spent the whole day locked up here waiting for you, hoping you’d come back safe and sound?"

John's seriously worried look, his words, his hand still tight on his arm startled Paul. He expected John to be angry and anxious, but not really so, not in a way that made him feel guilty, terribly guilty, and ashamed of himself, more than he already was.

"I... I'm sorry, John." He apologized, "I know it wasn’t the right thing to disappear."

John shook his head and with a resigned sigh left his grip on his arm: "No, you don’t know, Paul, you don’t know what it means to wake up and not find you anywhere. You don’t know how I felt while recreating in my mind the worst scenarios which could happen to you, you don’t know anything at all."

"Then tell me." Paul said exasperated and John looked at him as if he didn’t expect anything like that from him, and in fact, he never ever thought that such a conversation could take such a turn.

He expected Paul to tell him to go to hell, or, "All right, John, I got the message, over and out." before acting as if nothing of this had ever happened. For this reason he felt himself blushing slightly when Paul took a single step closer to him, a step that seemed miles for John.

"Tell me, John." He repeated calmly and couldn’t hold back his smile, "So I'll never make the same mistake anymore."

How fucking close was he now? They must have been no farer than few inches. It was perhaps the first time that the distance, or Paul’s closeness, counted so unbelievably for John and he found himself breath raggedly. Fucking hell, how long had he been breathing so fast?

"I... I..."

He was also stuttering. _Him_! Bloody John Lennon! And it was all Paul's fault and the way he looked at him. It had never been difficult to scold Paul, but at that moment John would have found easier to climb the Everest. It would have been funnier to run the risk of falling into a ravine rather than rushing into such fragile and delicate ground as the one now spread out in front of him.

Unable to hold those eyes anymore, John gave him his back, moving away toward the window. That wasn’t how he imagined Paul's return. But on the other hand his mental scenes were really improbable, indeed, completely impossible to realize, because Paul would have turned him down and told him to fuck off, but also because the anger he felt that morning was coming back to roar in him.

And then maybe Paul really had to know how much he made him worry, even if John risked admitting to him, with the emphasis of his words, that... that he liked Paul. Here, he said it. He liked Paul, somehow still not entirely clear, and John couldn’t prevent himself from feeling such a devastating feeling, he couldn’t and didn’t want to prevent it.

"When I saw you weren’t here, I thought it could happen anything to you, with that face of yours yourself and your always giving too much confidence to strangers. Some ugly mug  could easily lure you into some alley and hurt you."

"You make me sound so vulnerable, as if I didn’t know how to look after meself." Paul muttered with a frown as he watched John fold his arms across his chest.

"Maybe because it's really like that, you're too good and you think everyone out there is your friend just because you can win them over with a smile... Well, it's not like that, Paul. The world devours people like you, after making them suffer fucking well. It's time for you to wake up, I don’t want to find myself in this situation again. If we're together somewhere, I don’t want to stay that far from you anymore... I don’t want to think again, _please, do not let anything happen to him_ , and to feel so powerless at the same time."

Paul just startled and was grateful that John couldn’t see him now, because he was sure he was showing off a really silly smile that would only make John more nervous. But his words kept echoing in Paul's head, feeding that smile and Paul had to force himself to react and not let himself be carried away in one of his favorite dreams, where John welcomed Paul's feelings, made them his own and totally returned them. So he approached John and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Sorry, John... I really didn’t want to make you worry."

John turned and pushed Paul's hand away, "Well, you did."

His reaction took Paul aback, who withdrew his hand and looked at John suspiciously: "Yes, but I can’t go back in time to change what happened, and even if I could, you know what, John? I would do it again, I would do it again a hundred times if it could help you understand that I’m fucking tired of being treated like that. I’m tired of the way you easily address me with this your grumpy way of dealing with problems, and then ignore me as if I didn’t exist, without even a bloody explanation."

Despite Paul's words struck him, because they were true and yes, John had been a colossal jerk to treat him like that last night, the boy couldn’t help but frown, while his feelings towards Paul, that is the anger and the more recent, the sweetest one, came back to boil over in him.

"If you're so tired of me, why did you agree to come with me on this trip? Oh, it must have been really boring, right, coming up to Paris with this crazy hysterical who's paying for everything, is that so, Paul?" John almost spat out those words, unable to hold them any longer and knowing he didn’t really think any of that shit, "Ah, wait, that's the reason, isn’t it? A fucking free trip was more important than being forced to bear me, mh?"

Paul opened his eyes wide, when such ignoble words came out of his friend's mouth, "You're an asshole, John... You're... _God_ , this is the stupidest thing you've said since we've known each other. I hate you when you do that... You make me regret coming back."

Paul didn’t really see this coming: John would never have done it, John would never have thrown back in his face the kind thought he had for him. And this, more than anything else, succeeded in preventing Paul acting instinctively and leaving again.

"Then go, go away, what keeps you?"

Paul bit his lip: he could even leave, if he wanted, for what it mattered to John... But Paul didn’t want to leave, he never wanted to leave again.

"Sure, that's what you want, isn’t it? So all of this would end and you wouldn’t have to face it and think we both got it wrong, but no, John, this time we'll settle the question like two grown up men."

The young lad approached again, his gaze softened.

"After all, you know you don’t want me to leave, and you know that I don’t want to leave now either, because I promised we would celebrate your birthday together. You also know that it isn’t for that reason that I joined you on this trip. If you had asked me without the money’s issue, I would have done anything to come with you, because I, John, I’d follow you to the end of the world. If you had proposed me to go together to… I don’t know, to fucking North Pole, I would have followed you there too... fuck, John, this journey has a deeper meaning, it's impossible that you didn’t feel it."

"Feel what?" John asked, his anger began to subside slowly, while Paul's words skillfully exercised their soothing power over the lad, who now seemed to hang completely from his lips.

"The reason I left. I felt that the situation was getting out of my hands, this journey has to strengthen what we are, John, definitely. We write together, we spend a lot of time together, it almost seems I see you more than my dad." he said, adding a little laugh," But we never really had the opportunity to solidify this... this thing between us. There has always been someone else with us. So the idea of a trip alone with you electrified me so much that I would have run away, even without my father's permission, if I had been forced. Perhaps at the beginning I would never have thought it possible, but _shit_! If it was to be with you, I would have done it eventually. And when you treated me that way last night, I thought it wasn’t working, and maybe it was my fault and my being absent from you, since my company is the only thing you have here."

John found himself in agreement and was almost relieved that Paul recognized his faults. It was a sign of modesty, which John had never considered one of his most important features. He never thought he had to say "I'm sorry" for something, because it would only add more insecurity to his already being insecure. But with Paul it was different, Paul made him want to say "I'm sorry", "Forgive me", "I'll never do it again."

"And now you hate me for what I'm about to say." Paul continued, surprising John, who didn’t expect to hear anything more from him and was about to apologize, "I know you'll hate me, but I have to do it because I can’t hide it anymore. I held back for too long, thinking that it was never the right time, thinking of the right words to use, but there is no more right time than this, nor more right words."

John was about to ask, "What the fuck are you talking about? What are you babbling about?". But he realized that he was voiceless, especially since Paul came closer just a little more and grabbed his jacket with his hands.

"John, I have to do it, because if this means pushing you away from me, then I can’t stand it. I don’t want you to stay away from me, ever."

Paul found himself almost breathless, his face burning, his hands trembling, his eyes almost wet and more than anything else, unable to believe he had just said something so important to John. The real problem came now. Did John understand what Paul meant? Did he get the deeper meaning of those words? His lack of reaction made Paul think that maybe it wasn’t really clear.

"John, _I want you_."

But John understood, he understood all too well. He had seen Paul's flushed red face, the faint smile his lips couldn’t hold back as they let out words that were like a treat for John. He saw all this, he completely reflected in it and understood.

And now he knew he had to say something, something that wasn’t very different from what Paul had just confessed, but it was so fucking difficult. How can you tell your best mate that you totally reciprocate his feeling, when this feeling is now far beyond friendship?

"Do you know, Paul, what happened last night? What was really the problem?"

Paul shook his head, not finding any words to add, perhaps because still upset by the courage he had just shown to John, or perhaps because he expected a very different reaction from his friend. John who stepped back from him, disgusted, and not John who stayed still with his jacket in Paul’s hands. John slagging him off, shouting other horrible insults against Paul, and not John who spoke to him quietly and looked at Paul's arms on his chest.

"The problem is that when you moved, your arm touched me and I thought..."

"What?"

John bit his lip nervously.

_Shit, shit, shit! Wait a minute!_

What was he doing?

What the fuck was he doing?

"Never mind." he said, turning back, hiding from Paul.

He couldn’t tell him what happened, he didn’t know how to do it without looking bloody ridiculous, without sounding cheesy, like a fucking queer, in a way that would ruin his reputation as a tough, Teddy boy, as a-

"Why?" his friend asked, walking around him so that now he found himself again in front of him and Paul took his arms in his hands.

Even though Paul was opening his heart to him, even though he was scared like John, he had found the right words. But John, he was a failure, a loser, he... Not only what he felt was ridiculous, he himself, his person, his being, was unworthy of all that had made beautiful his life miserable. And this also included Paul.

"You would make fun of me and I would ruin everything as usual."

"John, no, I’d never do that." Paul answered back lively, "I understand what you're feeling, I swear I do, and if you can tell me, maybe together we can find a way to deal with it."

Paul's hands on his arms began to caress him gently, uncertain movements, shy, but they never stopped and John looked at them for a moment, while he was immediately brought back to the night before, on the bed, with Paul who sort of hugged him.

After all, he had no reason to be afraid of Paul and this feeling that seemed to be shared, which seemed to be tormenting both of them and not just him. In fact, perhaps it tormented Paul for more time than John, because while he was telling him those things, Paul seemed so sure that John was envious of him. And in front of Paul, John’s reputation lost all its importance and could even go down the pan. John owed him now, at this moment, in whatever way he chose to tell him or show him.

So, before really thinking about what to do, his heart moved first and convinced him to hug Paul and hold him close.

"When you touched me, I thought I wanted to hug you, touch you back."

Paul allowed himself to hold his breath, but he desperately tried not to close his eyes and letting himself go to the feeling of being finally in John’s arms, a feeling that was perfect, as he had always imagined it.

He giggled a little, "Just so?"

"Just so." John repeated, pulling back a little to look him in the eye and _jeez!_ , Paul didn’t seem to think of one of the bad things John had predicted.

Instead, he seemed to expect right that from him, because perhaps that faint voice within John that whispered that his feeling wasn’t ridiculous, and it wasn’t at all, perhaps that little voice was _right_.

"And then, you had this stupid lock of hair before your eyes. I thought: fuck, if he wakes up, surely it will bother him. And I would have liked to move it aside."

His hand followed the indication of his words, making Paul blush.

"Very kind of you, thank you."

"You're welcome." John said, realizing that after all it wasn’t a difficult thing sharing his feelings with Paul.

Perhaps beginning was the most complicated part of that speech, like the small effort of turning the key in a lock or lifting the barriers of a dam, because once the initial difficulty was overcome, all the rest came out alone, easily, with the force of an impetuous river, with the pressure accumulated by all that time in which John hadn’t seen, nor felt, nor known that his best friend, Paul, had become the most precious person in his life, the dearest for John.

"And then I would have liked to get closer to smell your skin."

When John did, when John touched his cheek with his nose and mouth, Paul struggled with all his strength not to close his eyes, it wasn’t yet the right time. He decided instead to cling to John's broad shoulders, while his legs threatened to give in right away, and his heart was too happy and it no longer knew with which rhythm pump blood in his veins and keep him alive.

"That’s... that's all?" He managed to say, his voice soft and longing.

"No." John replied, shaking his head and smiling to himself, rather than to Paul, "I really think I also wanted to kiss you."

Paul's hands squeezed automatically John's shoulders, grabbed his jacket, actually, Paul's jacket. The realization made Paul's smile grow, for what John had just said, of course, words that opened the doors to a sort of sheer paradise for Paul, but also because his jacket on John would now be soaked with his scent. And when Paul would wear it again, he would be wrapped not only by his own smell, but also by John’s and this time not by mistake. That would have been right, because now it was his and he belonged to him.

"Do you still think so?"

"Yeah."

"And you still want it?"

John nodded, while Paul's expression abandoned his shyness. Now there was determination on his face, a very bright one judging from his red cheeks, as if he hadn’t so easily given up to the inevitable gesture that would have ended that speech.

" _Please_ , do it."

That seemed almost an order and John looked at him, a few inches from his face, and before his pleading eyes, the small nose sprinkled with freckles barely sketched, his parted lips that were waiting only him, John really didn’t know what was holding him back from getting all of this, Paul offering himself desperately.

Perhaps he knew it and this only made him more angry with himself.

"I'm scared." And unintentionally he pulled his head away from Paul's, just a few inches.

Why? Why the tormented John, hidden inside himself, didn’t leave him alone at least now, _now_ that he was experiencing the most exciting and wonderful feeling of his life? Now that he would be a little less tormented and a little happier?

"Enough, John, no more fear. We can’t go back by now." He said, wrapping his arms around his neck and bringing him back, close to him.

Maybe John needed to be afraid, just because Paul could do what he did best: push his fears away with a word or gesture, and win him over once more.

"You really should kiss me, you know, John." he pointed out to him, smiling mischievously and ignoring the other boy's fears, "You should do it now and without being afraid because I won’t stop you."

John thought about it for a few seconds, not that he really needed to think about it. After all, his decision had already been taken.

"Right. Somehow you have to be forgiven for running away this morning and leaving me alone, on my birthday moreover."

"Well, now you're not alone anymore." Paul commented, slightly moving his head aside and approaching to John, to his lips, to his kiss, "And it seems I desperately want to be forgiven."

It only took him one last smile from Paul, before John decided to end the last inch that separated him from Paul.

That last inch that separated him from his best mate’s lips. Holy shit, he was about to kiss his fucking best mate. It was so unbelievable that John hadn’t realized that he was really doing it. He was still in a sort of numb state, as if he had just woken up from the most beautiful dream and realized that the dream was only reality.

He realized how real this was only when, finally, his mouth touched Paul's. He touched it shyly, as if he thought that at any moment Paul or John himself could change their mind abruptly and make both of them regret what was happening.

But fortunately it wasn’t so, and when Paul's arms tightened more around his neck, as if to encourage him to deepen the kiss, John followed his suggestion, kissing him only a little more passionately. That, right that was the moment when he realized how perfect Paul's kiss was, how far it exceeded his expectations or any mind movie he had cast that afternoon in his head. It was none of that, it was much better, it was great, it was crazy, it was pure rock 'n’ roll and God only knew how much John loved fucking rock ‘n’ roll.

When his mouth was captured by John, Paul closed his eyes, finally deciding to give in to the gesture and no less important, to John. He closed his eyes and immediately found himself at his favorite singer’s concert, John Lennon, who sang, played, lived only for him.

So engaging was John’s kiss, so unique, so special, that Paul would have liked to move more: just move away a bit to see his reaction or holding him more and nail it to the wall to be able to kiss him fucking properly, but he stayed still, because he was unsure about what to do and because he still didn’t want to part from him. Now that he finally had what he had always wanted in the last few months, he wanted to savor it to the end.

However, when their need for air became urgent, Paul moved away from John, realizing that his ragged breath followed that the other boy’s and his face was so flushed that it managed to surprise Paul. He had never seen John in that state and knowing that it was his own credit, or his fault, it was bloody satisfying.

"So..." he began to say, finding the courage to speak after having locked eyes with John, "Am I forgiven?"

"Oh yes." John replied, chuckling, "You can fucking bet on it."

***

It didn’t follow a bet, but something so clumsy, awkward, even frightened that Paul almost burst out laughing to see how they had both changed in a few minutes. They didn’t even seem themselves. And if on one hand he had loved what happened, on the other he thought that he didn’t want this to change them. So, when for the umpteenth time John intercepted his gaze and looked away, turning his head to the other side and blushing as a pepper, he sighed openly.

"John."

"What?"

"Stop."

"Doing what?"

"Doing _that_."

"What’s _that_?"

"Come on, you know." he replied, shrugging, "We look like two strangers. I fucking hate it. You didn’t do that even when we met."

John smiled, realizing that Paul was right and that he couldn’t bear this feeling of such a thick discomfort that it seemed to be physically present next to them.

"Sorry, it's just that..." he chuckled, "I don’t fucking know how to behave."

"As usual, John. It didn’t change a-" he said, but the blaming look John gave him interrupted Paul and he was forced to admit that, "Ok, maybe something has changed."

" _Maybe_? How can you possibly say _maybe_?"John replied totally astonished.

Paul shook his head, smiling and approached him, taking John’s hands in his.

"What I want to say, John, is that whatever happens, nothing must ruin our relationship. Nothing and no one. Deal?"

"Deal."

Paul nodded satisfied, but only when John told him, "You're a fucking sentimentalist as ever!" he smiled genuinely, sure now that John got the message.

"Anyway, I think I glimpsed a present before..." John began to say, looking around.

"Really? It seems to me you've had enough presents for today."

John looked at him and wondered if it was normal to find his cheekiness absolutely adorable. Before that day he wouldn’t have cared much about it, but now he was aware of so many little things he had never seen before, details of Paul's face, of his posture that did nothing but rekindle his desire to take Paul again in his arms and kiss him and this time not only on the lips, but also on the nose, ears, eyelids, kissing everything on his face that helped to make his expression _adorable_.

But, thinking back to what Paul said, he understood that John Lennon would answer differently.

"Gifts are never enough, don’t you know? Especially on your birthday."

Paul laughed and then approached the envelope left on the ground a short time ago. He took it and handed it back to John.

"Here."

"Thank you." John chirped, finally taking the gift in his hands.

He went to sit on the bed, crossed his legs and began to explore the envelope, while Paul approached and settled in front of him.

The contents of the envelope turned out to be two burgers, two bottles of beer and what looked a lot like a tray of pastries.

"I thought you definitely wouldn’t have moved from the room." Paul started to explain, blushing as he remembered and felt guilty for leaving John alone, "And I didn’t know if our stocks could satisfy your bloody starving, so I got you a couple of burgers and beer , because the beer fits everywhere and because it doesn’t need an explanation, plus I also bought some pastries because somehow we have to celebrate."

John looked at him intently, while Paul pointed to everything he mentioned. But rather than following his directions, he was so caught up by this new angle with which he could admire Paul. With Paul looking down, all he could see was his eyelids moving from time to time and when they did, his long dark lashes vibrated against the background of two milk-white cheeks, which John knew now being smooth. Had his eyelashes always been so long? And his cheeks, so plump and delicate?

Noticing the lack of a response from John, Paul looked up and saw the young man all intent on staring at him, and despite his intentions to behave as usual towards him, he couldn’t help but blush. He had always loved John's lost and dreamy expression. It was so rare to see that John allowed himself to get lost in his thoughts, an expression that Paul had seen on his face only on rare occasions and almost always they needed the presence of a guitar or Cynthia. However now he was looking at him this way and this only made Paul blush more and feel his heart wince slightly in his chest.

"John?"

"Ta’."

Paul, amused, wrinkled his nose: "It means that you liked the gift, right?"

"Very much." John replied, nodding, "But you know, Paul, I think a hamburger is more than enough for me. You should eat the other."

"It doesn’t matter, I'm not hungry."

"I can’t believe it, please." John replied, handing him a n hamburger, "You have to eat, otherwise, who will hear your father, if you come back all worn?"

Paul burst out laughing: "I don’t think there will be this risk, John, but thank you."

So they ate the hamburgers, exchanging a smile and a glance from time to time. Nothing so unusual, really, yet John felt how very different everything was, with a slight warmth and a sweetness that enveloped him, along with Paul, in a sort of limbo that he never wanted to leave.

Then they passed to the pastries, lots of little colored cakes, butter biscuits, macaroons, meringues... and lots of little competitions to grab the most beautiful, colorful and therefore the best pastry.

That for John was really the most beautiful and happiest birthday of his life, the birthday in which for the first time he hadn’t felt the lack of anything, because all he needed, friendship, family and love was right there in front of him, handy.

Finally, too tired for the exciting day that had seen them separated and later, so quickly closer, the two boys went to sleep early, but neither of them hoped, or even believed, to be able to get really sleepy. They remained silent for a long time, listening to each other's breathing, not being able to move a single muscle, or to change position due to the sweet fear, or perhaps hope, of ending up too close to the other lad.

"Paul, are you sleeping?"

Paul sighed, pleased that John had finally decided to speak, after he had felt his insistent look on him in the last half hour.

"Not yet."

"Me neither."

"I would never have said that." Paul commented, chuckling and turned on his side to look at John in the darkness of the room, "The twenty-one years begin to weigh, huh?"

"Daft." John mumbled and told him affectionately, rather than offended.

"So, what's bothering you, Johnny?" he asked, interested.

"When you said that this journey hides a deeper meaning, did you refer to what happened today?"

Paul sighed, absently passing a hand on the bedspread.

"John, although I waited to tell you what I was feeling, and believe me, I waited a long time, I really didn’t think anything could happen, so no, I wasn’t referring to this, but I knew that somehow this trip would change our lives, together." Paul explained, "Do you think it makes sense?"

"Yeah." John answered, without even thinking about it, just because he felt it, he felt inside himself that it was, "Very, but I'm happy with what happened today."

"Wouldn’t it be time to call him by its name?"

"That is?"

"That is, we kissed, John, fucking _kissed_." he answered and then with a quick gesture, leaned towards him to place a very brief kiss on his lips, before returning to his spot.

John chuckled, realizing that he was beginning to miss Paul's mouth on his and was happy that he had done it.

"All right then, I'm happy we kissed."

"Yup." Paul agreed and his voice grew softer and softer, "Me too."

John smiled as he thought that only the night before he would be horrified by such a hypothesis and now instead, he never wanted to stop kissing Paul and holding him to himself.

"Paul, can I get closer?"

"Of course you can, what a question!"

John didn’t have time to move that Paul already wrapped his arm around his waist and drew him closer. And this time John didn’t reject him, in fact, he hugged him back, while Paul crouched against him, sure that now he could even fall asleep.

"Happy birthday, John."

And it really was.

"Thanks, Paul."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They did it! Omg, after 12 chapters. Yay! :3  
> I really hope it was worth waiting for this moment and that you like the chapter. ^w^  
> I don't have much to say unless that it's true Paul gave John a hamburger for his birthday while in Paris.  
> Thanks to all of you for your support, I really appreciate it. <3  
> Thanks also to sherlocked221 who corrected the chapter in time. You are the best. *o*  
> And thank you to whydontwedoitontheinternet because of the wonderful comic she did about the last scene of this chapter (you can see it on my tumblr blog) and because she is a great friend of mine. <3  
> Next chapter, Hands, is coming next week.  
> Bye bye :3


	13. Hands

Paul didn’t want to wake up. Why should he?

He had just had the greatest dream, the most exciting of all his life, the most realistic dream, the dream that made him happy.

So really, why should he wake up?

The answer came from a little voice inside him that spoke in a mocking and at the same time sweet tone, a familiar tone that told him, "What the fuck are you waiting for? Wake up, you loafer. It's time to start the most beautiful day of your life. Come on, move your arse."

So, to silence that unbearable and adorable little voice, Paul reluctantly decided to open his eyes.

He recognized the ceiling of his room and the sheets, rough as ever. All as usual, except perhaps that arm that surrounded his waist and a head resting on his shoulder. It was a small difference from his previous awakenings, but it was an important difference. It was like the icing on the cake.

Mind you, back in Liverpool he woke up with John curled up against him many times, but never his head had bent down to touch his shoulder, nor his arm had leaned out in the night to hug him or their hands entwined. Those hands that had never been so tight before, in that grip that was firm and sure and enchanting.

None of this.

However, _this_ was his awakening and Paul could now caress that arm and bring his head closer to John's, loving the tickling feeling of those thin auburn hairs and inhaling their smell deeply. Simple but significant gestures because they indicated that Paul didn’t only dream of what had happened with John: it was more true than ever, it was real.

_Real_ was a beautiful word, wasn’t it? So elegant and true. Just like John.

Well, maybe elegant wasn’t exactly the first word that John’s acquaintances could associate him with, but for Paul it was so. It had nothing to do with the way of expressing himself, definitely as a docker, not to say worse, nor with his clothing. It was in his gestures, in his so sophisticated movements, in his voice. God, his perfect voice, his tone, so drowsy. Paul thought that noble people should all talk like that, and that he would willingly spend his whole life listening to John, listening to him while he sang and teased him. How did he keep that charming tone even when he called him idiot or swore heavily? Paul was always so vulgar when he did it. Why?

However, was it something that really mattered to him? After all, it seemed like something that didn’t bother John. So why would he have to worry about it? It was ok for John, so it was also ok for Paul.

A slight movement of the head on his shoulder and John’s hand intertwined with his, tightening a little more, told Paul that John was waking up.

The young lad murmured, his eyes still closed, his cheek pressed against something warm, a fabric that had the same smell that had enveloped him the day before, that familiar smell John was sure it didn’t belong to him, it wasn’t his own smell. Determined to find out what it was, John opened his eyes and remembered everything.

"About fucking time!" Paul told him, with a big smile and his eyes sparkling.

John, with his eyes still half-open, managed to notice him and he twisted his lips letting out a slight grunt: how on earth could Paul be so bright and jaunty early in the morning?

John's awakenings were always a trauma for him, whether they came smoothly or abruptly. First of all, he had to focus, as it was, with his short-sighted eyes, his surroundings and realize that he was exactly in the same place where he had fallen asleep. If it hadn’t been so, then he would have found himself in big trouble. But this, fortunately, happened very rarely in his life. Then he had to find the strength to get up to go and get some coffee and something to eat, two things that would give him the energy to really wake up, recover the speech and face the day. If someone met John on that short journey and asked him anything or even just spoke to him for a kind "Good morning, John", well, let's just say it meant big trouble for them.

Now, however, with Paul a breath away from him, John thought that there was no coffee stronger than that smile and nothing sweeter and more energizing than their hands still intertwined.

"Yes, good morning to you too, Paul."

Then he moved and settled on his side, while Paul laughed and turned to him.

"The usual grumpy awakening?"

"No, not this time." He replied, shaking his head slightly.

"What makes it different?" Paul continued, showing all his curiosity on his face.

"It seems obvious to me." John replied and gave a shy nod towards him, "You."

Paul laughed: "It's not the first time we’ve woken up in the same bed."

"No, but it's the first time we’ve found ourselves like this." And so saying, he pointed to their hands, still intertwined.

"Oh, sure, fair enough." Paul whispered, blushing slightly, and this only encouraged John to continue.

The power to make Paul blush was both delicious and intoxicating, something that was hard to resist to.

"Also, after yesterday's awful awakening, today I'm too happy for you to be here."

"Is that why you didn’t let me go all night and now I’ve got pins and needles in my arm? Are you afraid I'd run away like yesterday morning?"

"I really think so. And I would also add a ‘It serves you right', my dear Paul, since you promised not to make me worry anymore, and I promised to get back at you if you broke the promise."

Paul opened his mouth in an exaggeratedly scandalized way: "I thought I had already been forgiven..."

"Oh yes, in fact you had." John exclaimed, pinching him on his side and making him squirm beside him, "But don’t deny me my little revenge, you deserve it all."

"So there's really no way to change your mind and convince you to forgive me once and for all?" Paul asked, with a sly smile that pulled his lips; then he approached John, letting his free hand slip over his chest.

"No." John answered, forcing himself to ignore the thrill of his skin under Paul's hand.

"Pity." Paul muttered with a fake pout, "I knew how to convince you."

"Did you?" John asked, interested, "How?"

"Well, first, you have to get closer to me." Paul explained, closing his hand on his shirt and inviting him to approach him.

"More than this? Isn’t it enough?"

"No. More, John, just a little while, otherwise it won’t work."

So John obeyed and came closer to Paul: "Is it better now?"

"Much better." Paul answered and his hand slid higher, brushing against his neck and finally lingering on his lips.

"And then? What does this flawless method of your consider?"

"Well, it expects me to do... _this_."

The last word was only a sigh on John's lips, before Paul caught them gently.

Sweet as sugar for coffee. Here's what was missing for John to wake him up completely. Paul's kiss was the right charge for John that morning. After this, he could do anything, the marathon at the Olympics, run a hundred meters in ten seconds. John was invincible! This thought only made him get lost in his kiss, savoring those soft lips that caressed his, delicately and passionately.

Paul's hand returned to grab John's shirt with his fingers and he smiled to himself, thinking that he would be forgiven, certainly he would be, John had finally given up and was communicating the verdict with his lips.

"So, Your Honor, can you grant me the grace?"

John frowned not so much because of the question, but because Paul had dangerously pulled away from him at the best time.

"Fuck yeah, I grant you everything you want." he answered, pulling him back to himself, "Just come back here."

Paul smiled as John picked up where they had been interrupted. He smiled because no sentence was more delightful than John's mouth and his need for him. How could he have given up on John once he got back to Liverpool? What would happen, would everything be back as before? Paul didn’t want to, he absolutely didn’t want to go back to how things were before that trip. It was impossible to pretend it never happened.

And this thought, this heartbreaking thought, in the end, was what made him move away from John again, just long enough to say, "John, shouldn’t we talk?"

"About what?"

"About _this_ , about us, about the band, about the girls. We'll have to go back to Liverpool in a few days, we have to decide what to do, how to behave with the others, what to say… about us, really, but also about the haircut. They will be so fucking surprised."

"Paul, couldn’t you just shut up for a while?" John asked, exasperated, raising his eyes, "Can we wait a few more days?"

"But we-"

"Besides!" John continued, regardless of him, "We've talked all our life. And now I just want to kiss you."

Paul was in the middle of a smile, when his mouth met again John's, happy that he had silenced him.

No more words. At least for a while.

****

_For a while_ turned into an entire morning. Then, when they realized they were in Paris and still hadn’t finished the visit, they finally decided to get up and go out in the open air, in the changing world, in that world so different from the small and precious one that was their hotel’s room.

The day was cold, but so clear; for this reason it seemed appropriate to take advantage of it and reach the imposing Arch of Triumph in order to enjoy that panoramic view, famous all over the world. John had hesitations about it, but Paul insisted: "You can’t go to Paris and not get on the Arch."

So John was forced to give up to his mate’s prayers, and followed Paul. When they reached the top, Paul developed an evident inability to stand still, as he always did when he was excited.

"It certainly is very high..." Paul commented, looking just below and clinging to the protective grilles.

"The Eiffel Tower is higher." John pointed out, staying just a step behind him.

"Yes, but we didn’t get on the Eiffel Tower."

"Do you have any idea of how much it costs? It was a fucking rip-off." John said sharply.

Paul turned to smile at him, "Hey. It didn’t want to be a critic."

John blinked, caught off guard and the only thing he could say was, "Oh."

Damn, Paul was good at displacing him, but John usually managed to answer back and then all this exchange would be prolonged as long as one of them didn’t  get tired and decided to end their fun, and certainly not because he didn’t know what to saymore. Oh, there were still so many things...

However, now John didn’t really know what to answer, also because of the uncomfortable feeling of being so high, a feeling that was making him sweat cold and tingle his hands. So he just looked at him, his gaze still vaguely disoriented, and Paul managed to hold back a laugh as he approached him.

"Are you struck dumb, Johnny?"

"Huh?"

"Yes, you are. It isn’t because of the height, is it?"

"Are you by chance implying that I suffer from vertigo?" John asked and then he stopped the impulse to answer him with a _‘Because if so, you're fucking right.’_

Suffer from vertigo? John Lennon? Well, it would be his downfall. A strong and arrogant guy like him, whose legs were trembling if only he leaned out of a window at the height of more than three meters?

"There would be nothing wrong." Paul reassured him.

"Yes, it would be fucking wrong. But it's not about this. "

Paul nodded absently, then curled his lips in a sly smile: "Well, then you won’t be bothered at all if we get a little closer to admire the view as it should be."

"What?" John asked, but it was too late.

Paul had already gone behind him and gently pushed him towards the grilles. John couldn’t really resist and automatically clung to the iron bars, which separated him from emptiness and certain death. A bad death, moreover.

"Paul." He said in a trembling voice.

"What, luv?"

"Let me go."

"Don’t tell me this is the truth. Do you really suffer from vertigo and you never told me?"

"Yeah, and if you tell someone... I'll fucking kill you."

"There's no danger, John.” Paul laughed, “But I never thought you were dizzy."

"Yeah, look how many surprises life can give you..."

"Our little Johnny is afraid of falling down." Paul exclaimed, almost like a chant.

"Paul, stop it, or I won’t be the one to fall from this bloody thing."

Paul chuckled amused and not at all intimidated by John’swords, who was shaken by a shiver. A shiver that had nothing to do with the height, but with Paul’s laughter that tickled his ear, making him realize how damn close he was and making the dizziness even worse.

 "Oh, but you don’t have to be afraid, John. I swear that if you fall, I'll catch you."

"So, that's why girls fall at your feet."

"Huh?"

This time it was Paul who was speechless, while John turned to him.

"You always know how to find the right and cheesiest things to say."

Paul gave him a look of challenge and malice: "You never heard me being really cheesy."

"One day it’ll happen even to me, right?"

Paul nodded smiling, "Only if you really want it and if you say the magic word."

"I want it. Please."

"All right, then, I'll prepare something special for you, Johnny." he assured him, forcing him with two hands on his shoulders to turn around again, "Now just think about enjoying this breathtaking view."

John took a deep breath to relax before trying to appreciate that view that was truly incredible. All Paris stretched out at their feet, beautiful, colorful, full of noise and movement. Just in front of them stood the Eiffel Tower, overbearing and cocky with its vaguely sexual appeal.

_You are made only of scrap metal, stupid tower!_

Then when he looked down, his head whirled a little, but he clung to the grilles. He wasn’t falling, he couldn’t fall, there were the iron bars that supported him. And then there was Paul behind him, ready to grab him at any moment.

When he succeeded in realizing that, and as a result he calmed down, John noticed that the roads all around them were like the spokes of a bicycle wheel: they all met at the Arch.

"Look, John!" Paul said, who pushed him forward a little towards the grilles, "That's the coffee shop where I spent all morning yesterday."

And so saying, he stretched out his arm beyond the grilles, where there was emptiness, pointing to the dark red curtains of a cafe below. But having been pushed even further towards those bars, it caused John a sudden dizziness and he immediately stepped back and his back hit Paul's chest. He was about to fall, he fucking was; now the grilles would have opened and John would have fallen and crashed to the ground. He didn’t want to die, not now, it was early. He still had his whole life in front of him and this life also included Paul, the only one who could help him at that moment, save him. So his hand hurriedly searched for Paul's, behind him, found it and held tight.

"John?!" Paul asked, looking at him worried and surprised by the tightness he really didn’t expect.

But John's slightly ragged breath told him that the lad wasn’t well: "Let me go."

"Wha-?"

"Paul, let me get away from here." John said in a louder, shaky voice.

Paul didn’t think twice and with his hand still close to his, led him a little further from the edge. John was really shaking and breathing shallowly, not to mention his pale face. It took a few minutes before he realized he wasn’t falling at all and that Paul's hand was holding him to the mainland, alive and safe.

Paul's hand, warm and strong. Paul's perfect hand in the-

_Paul's hand_?

Was he really holding Paul's hand?

What the hell had he thought, right there, where everyone could see them and think... things about them?

He immediately let go of his hand, with a gesture that was perhaps too abrupt, and looked around quickly to see that no one had seen them holding hands. After all, he knew that he didn’t care much about what the others thought, but this was a small part of him. It counted very much for John, but it was still small, had to grow up and be looked after with love. And now, at this precise moment, with the risk he had just run, that part hadn’t any say in the matter.

"All right?" Paul asked, still worried and perhaps upset by John’s gesture.

"Yes... all right."

"I'm sorry, it was my fault."

John looked at him and the regret of having rejected his hand made him feel extremely guilty, but Paul had to understand his gesture.

"Don’t worry. I'm fine now." John tried to reassure him,"Let's go, okay?"

Paul nodded with a quick movement of his head: "All right."

After about an hour, after they walked on the Avenue so that John could recover himself after the dizziness on the Arch, they settled in one of the many cafés of the street, deciding that it was finally time to eat.

Since he left the Arch, Paul didn’t lose sight of him for a moment. In part because he wanted to make sure John was okay and because he still felt guilty. And partly because what had happened up there made it clear that there was something he wanted to do, something he was now free to do with John, but perhaps he couldn’t do it anywhere yet.

John's hand in his was perfect wherever they were, in the intimacy of a bedroom and in public, so much so that Paul wanted to shout it to the whole world. But John would reject him.

Paul was sure about it. John would tell him it wasn’t the right place, because... there were so many _becauses_ that Paul didn’t know where to start. But John, yes, he would tell him all these things, frightened, fucking frightened. The abrupt gesture with which he had left his hand was the confirmation.

However, Paul couldn’t just give up. He would hate himself for not even try, and after opening his heart to the boy, Paul was now sure he could do anything.

John's hand on the table was a temptation, the sweetest for Paul. He couldn’t resist.Therefore, he slipped his hand on the table, a slow and casual gesture.

"John, are y-"

"I'm fine, Paul, stop asking me." John muttered exasperated, giggling soon after.

"I wasn’t really going to ask you that. I think I've got the message now." Paul said, smiling, but he couldn’t stop himself from blushing,"I was actually going to ask you something else."

Then his gaze fell on his hand, which was a mere inch from John's.

And John felt it, the shudder that had shaken him when he held his hand a short time before; it had come back to shake him, to inform him about what Paul was going to ask him and John just wanted to say, _"No, don’t do it, Paul, I can’t, please, don’t do it."_

It was just this that Paul wanted from John. In fact…

"John, I... I want to hold your hand. Here. In front of everyone."

His index finger brushed against John's and he shuddered again.

"I want to hold your hand." he repeated, looking back at John, and he felt himself burning.

John bit his lip.

_God!_

He loved that look on Paul, it made John crazy like nothing else. And John would desire to _want_ to say, "Yes, do it now, in this stupid café."

But all he could do was move his hand away from Paul's and secure it on his leg.

And all he could say was, "Hey, it would work for a song."

****

He had been a jerk. The most jerk of all the jerks.

All the way to the hotel, the silence that was lingering between them was more deafening than the sleepless city.

Paul walked only a little ahead of John. Or maybe it was John who had slowed his pace, staying behind. It had to be like that. John was the one who had been afraid of, "I want to hold your hand". He had felt the heat wave that passed through him, shaking him from head to toe, that desire to satisfy Paul's request. He wanted to stretch his hand on that fucking little table, slide it slowly over Paul's and caress it, then make them intertwine and grab Paul's hand, hold it tight and not let it go any longer.

He wanted it, he really wanted.

But he didn’t have the courage to do it. Not there, not in front of everyone. Even if _no one_ knew him. He couldn’t because he wasn’t ready and who knows if he ever would have been.

He and the whole world, ready for such a relationship, for two lads who were walking holding hands.

What was so different from a boy and a girl? The clothes, the hair? What? It couldn’t be just for that stupid reproductive organ. It made no sense.

It really didn’t.

John also knew that nothing in the world made sense, because humankind had no sense, with their stupid moral rules on the one hand and their breaking on the other. But as long as human beings ruled the world, then John had to undergo. And taking Paul's hand in front of everyone was out of the question, it was forbidden.

For this reason he slowed his pace, moving away from him half a meter, just enough so that his hand didn’t come into contact with Paul’s and didn’t convince him not to give a shit about everything and everyone and make those last steps that separated them from the safe world of their room, with Paul's hand tight in his.

Paul, on the other hand, seemed to understand. He hadn’t looked for him nor searched his eyes, he hadn’t turned to ask him, amused, "What the fuck are you doing there?"

And John was grateful to him. He couldn’t lie and couldn’t resist the temptation to tell him that the problem was that stupid hand. Paul’s fucking hand, so big, with long slim fingers, his warm hand which that morning, for all the time intertwined with his own, seemed perfect. In the right place. In its home.

John looked at his hand. It was so cold on that cold October day in Paris. It was cold and just asked for warmth which John couldn’t offer. That heat that seemed to be so endless in Paul.

When they finally reached the hotel, and after giving the landowner a polite nod, they went up to their room, John's heart winced impatiently and eager to tell Paul he wasn’t playing the asshole to blow everything up, for some stupid rethinking or whatever. He was doing it because for the time being it was necessary. And Paul had to know that John wanted him, he really wanted to take him by the hand. He needed it.

John put the key in the lock and immediately opened the door. He entered the small room and waited for Paul to pass, before closing the door and suddenly grabbing his hand. Paul turned to look at him, surprised, and opened his lips, perhaps to ask him: "John, what are you doing?"

But John anticipated him: "Sorry."

"What for?"

"What I did before. Or better, what I didn’t do."

Paul smiled, pleased: "John, there’s no need. You didn’t do anything wrong, in fact, I was wrong, I should never have asked you something like that."

"No, no, Paul, it's fucking right what you asked me. I mean, it's normal if two people, whoever they are, want to hold hands while walking or sitting in a bar. I want, you know, you don’t have to think for a moment that it's not like that, but... "

"But it wasn’t yet the right time." Paul finished with a sigh, "Was it?"

"It wasn’t." John confirmed, nodding sadly.

"But now you did it."

"Yup."

"So in our room is all right?"

"Sure, that's okay..." he said pointing at his hands, "And that's okay too."

And so saying he kissed him, making the other hand also intertwine with Paul’s, while he moaned in the kiss because, damn it, how John was able to wipe out any pathetic thought from his mind, was a mystery. One of those mysteries that, if unveiled, ran the risk of losing their charm, and Paul didn’t want this to happen. So he let him do it, he allowed John to remove all the sad thoughts, the tormenting ones because of the dull people around them- just with that fucking kiss.

Then he pulled away from John and smiled blissfully.

"The idea of the song isn’t bad, you know? We can really think about it."

"When we get home, Paul." John answered, looking for his mouth again, "First we have to practice."

"Practice?" Paul repeated puzzled, blinking.

"Yes. About holding hands."

"Since when do you need to practice on the subject of the song, John?" he asked, giggling.

"From now." and finally he came back to take possession of his mouth, while Paul supported him with a big smile on his lips.

That morning they woke up, finding themselves only by chance with their hands intertwined, while now they deliberately fell asleep in that position.

Perhaps they didn’t managed to walk hand in hand for Paris, but in any case they had sought and found each other and this meant everything to Paul. Because if before their separate hands represented their feelings, the same yes, but not shared, now they were the perfect symbol of what united them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hey, chapter 13 is here.   
> It's a bit weird, isn't it? I mean, maybe it's not one of my favourites. Don't know why. :(  
> Hope you like it anyway.   
> Thanks to anyone who read and left a comment. I really appreciate your support. And also thanks to my lovely betareader sherlocked221 and my dear friend whydontwedoitontheinternet.   
> Next chapter will be Rain. And oh, yes, I finished translate all the 16 chapters. Yay! *^*  
> Bye bye


	14. Rain

Two days later, John, Paul, and Paris woke up, very late, under the darkest sky they had ever seen. Threatening clouds chased each other in the sky,they were chasing and blending into a big gray cumulus cloud that grew before their very eyes.

"Do we really have to go out with this shitty weather?" Paul asked, looking out the window.

He curled his lips, while John came up beside him, studying the weather that was waiting them outside that hotel.

"They’re just two fucking clouds, Paul. Don’t tell me you’re afraid of some little clouds." he teased him with a little push.

"It seems to me they’re more than _some little clouds_." Paul pointed back, looking suspicious, "What if it started to rain?"

"So what?"

"We don’t even have an umbrella! What if it starts to rain, and we find ourselves outside and we all get wet?"

John shrugged: it was clear that all of Paul's theories hadn’t touched him at all and he didn’t seem to give them a fucking shit.

"Well, it’ll be just another adventure, come on, Paul. We have only three days to go, we have to enjoy Paris as much as we can."

Paul sighed and looked at him gloomily, as John came closer and zipped up his leather jacket, up to his neck, so that the lad was well covered.

"Just cover yourself, so you don’t get cold." John added with a really cunning and sweet smile, "Come on, Paul."

Paul rolled his eyes. _Damn John_! It was practically impossible to resist to that smile.

“All right, then, can we at least get an umbrella if it starts raining?"

"What?" John said, frowning, "Are you kidding? So much money for a fucking umbrella?"

"I really don’t think it cost that much."

"Yes, we are in Paris, everything costs more here just because it touched the sacred French soil." John pointed out, starting to pull him by the sleeve towards the door of the room, "Besides it won’t rain, it seems too threatening to really happen."

"Since when are you a meteorology expert?" Paul asked him, stopping, while John closed the door.

"Since now."

Paul looked at him carefully and John’s eyes never wavered before his own, which was very rare. So why shouldn’t he trust John? Had he ever regretted before, following his choices?

No, he had never ever regretted it.

So sighing an " _Oh, John_ ", he left the hotel and faced the threatening weather.

Of course on that day John chose to visit an open space, which offered very few shelters in case of showers: it was the Tuileries gardens, a large public garden, surrounded by greenery and all the colors of autumn. However at that moment, with a cloudy sky, the colors lost all their brightness. By now, after a couple of hours in which he had been able to admire Paris defying the leaden sky, Paul understood that the day was decidedly monochromatic. And he hated gray, there was already so much of it back in Liverpool, with the harbour, the smoke, the sky... even the sea looked gray sometimes.

Yet with John at his side, everything seemed more bearable. He would have dared to say that on that day Paris wore a melancholy dress, but with its own charm, a charm Paul had to discover yet.

The gardens, despite the weather, were crowded. It seemed that tourists didn’t care much whether it was sunny or it was stormy: they were in Paris, they couldn’t simply stay locked up in the hotel. It was maybe for this reason, to reward their resourcefulness, that the day was pleasant despite the clouds.

John and Paul ate walking along the paths of the garden, and even managed to find, with Paul’s great joy, a couple of banana milkshakes, which made them forget for a moment the gloomy weather above them.

Paul was even beginning to believe deeply that John's prophecy was correct. Maybe it had been really much ado about nothing.

However, just when Paul decided to congratulate John, because he had been forward-looking, a sudden flash followed by a thunder made them jump and when, two minutes later, the first drops of rain started to fall on their faces, Paul realized that one like John, one so incredibly short-sighted, was practically impossible to be forward-looking. And Paul had been a fucking _idiot_ to follow him.

Now it would start to rain and they were far from the hotel. Surely they would get wet.

"Oh, fucking hell." Paul swore, stopping to look up and turning the palm of his left hand in the direction of the rain, "Now what the fuck are we doing?"

John giggled, amused, as he checked that his jacket was well closed to the neck.

"You won’t be distressed for a couple of drops, will you, Paul?"

" _A couple_?!" Paul repeated upset, "These aren’t a couple of fucking drops, John!"

And indeed he was right: big drops felt on them and crashed inexorably on the ground or whatever they found in their path. For example, John and Paul.

_Plin._

_Plin._

"Then run, Paul."

_Plin plin plin._

"Wha-?" Paul started to say, but John grabbed him by the sleeve of his jacket, encouraging him to run.

So the two lads, and all those who were in the gardens and didn’t have an umbrella just like them, began to run away in every directions, searching for a shelter. The sky became darker, the thunders louder and the lightning blinding. The rain became intense and little puddles had already formed on the roads.

The way back to the hotel was longer than usual, although the two guys were running very fast. A brief shelter from the rain was offered by the cable car that took them to Montmartre’s hill. However, when they left the station, they realized that the situation had worsened in such a short time. That wasn’t just rain, that was a fucking downpour. That was God who sent them the divine punishment for being two bad guys, for the immoral behaviors they had towards each other. John chuckled at the thought. He would gladly accept his punishment, after all. How much did he care anyway? Fucking nothing! He would do it all again with Paul, all over again, even if he had to face much worse punishments.

"Come on, we're almost there." John said, leaving the small shelter of the station.

Paul looked at him with wide eyes as the older plunged into that kind of shower.

"You're kidding, aren’t you?" He asked as he abruptly brought him back to the shelter.

"What’s the problem?”

"We have to wait for the rain to fade a little."

"That won’t happen anytime soon. We should try to go anyway."

"You’re fucking mad. We’ll get there bloody soaked."

"Maybe you didn’t notice, Paul, but we already are." John commented, pointing to the shabby state of their clothes and hair, "Waiting here, in the cold air, will only make us sick and I don’t want to spend out last days in Paris in bed, with flu."

That said, he freed himself from Paul's grip and returned into the rain.

"It's only two blocks away, Paul." He said before smiling at him and offering him his hand, "Let's go."

Paul's eyes widened further for that unexpected surprise, and then they lit up with joy. The prospect of running and holding John’s hand in public, under the downpour, of course, but in public, was too good for Paul to give it up.

So, biting his lip, perhaps to contain his happiness, or perhaps for the venture they were about to face, Paul grabbed his hand and John smiled briefly, before running towards their final shelter.

The rain was cold and soaked their clothes. It slipped from the hair on their neck and crept under their t-shirts, ran the full length of their back, giving intense shuddersinch by inch. Paul didn’t care though, be soaked, get cold, end up with his feet in the puddles, everything became insignificant because John's hand was warm and strong and more importantly, it was in his own.

Although the downpour was so dense that John and Paul could hardly see where they were going, somehow they managed to get to the hotel. They shook off some water, flooding the floor at the entrance and when the hotel owner saw it, she became so angry that she began to curse.

_"Parbleu! Quel desastre!"_

And while the old woman dumped her anger over them, the two boys ran up the stairs, laughing and wetting the carpet that covered their path.

Paul noticed pleasantly that John hadn’t let go of his hand yet. And the boy didn’t, even when he opened the door and together they entered the room. Paul followed him with his eyes as he tried to catch his breath, both for the ride and the laughter. Now he understood the secret charm of that day. It was right there, in front of him: it was the cold water that had soaked John's clothes and hair, it was his hand holding Paul’s, it was his short breath due to the ride... it was just John.

"Fuck, I've never run so much." John chuckled, and bent forward a little, bringing his other hand to his left side.

Paul smiled absently. It was as if he was there with John, watching the little droplets of water fall from his hair, but John's hand clenched with his was keeping him somewhere else, in a place where he was free to walk with John among people and maybe even hug him. Or a place, a simple hotel room, where Paul could approach him right now, gently push him towards the wall, begin to kiss him on the mouth, then go down on his neck and in the meantime, take off his jacket, shirt and finally lead him to the bed for-

God, there was no place where Paul could do this without fear, without feeling guilty, without thinking that John would have rejected him badly because kissing, hugging, fooling around were one thing, and quite another was... it was... well, it was something else.

"It’ll be better to take off these wet clothes, before we get really sick.” John said, smiling at Paul, as he left his hand to pull off his jacket.

Paul startled slightly. He couldn’t have read his mind, it was totally impossible. So he blushed and nodded quickly.

"Yes, then... I’ll go, I'll go and take a shower first, okay?"

John looked at him, but luckily he didn’t seem to notice the slight flicker in his voice.

"Hurry up though."

"Of course."Paul said, opening the bathroom door, "I'll be back before you can say: _they’re just two fucking clouds, Paul_."

****

John had to admit that Paul had been very quick for his standards. So John willingly accepted his turn. The frozen water had penetrated into his bones and it was almost impossible to heat up near the radiator in the room. What was needed was a nice hot shower, which could wash away the cold and everything else. Like that strange wish he had to hold Paul's hand amongst other people. Yes, ok, there were few people around. And anyway no one would have notice them in the middle of a downpour. But John had noticed, he had fucking done. _Very much_! Only two days ago he had told Paul that it wouldn’t have been possible in public and now, there he was. He had just run for a couple of blocks with his best friend's hand in his own.

It was crazy, it was sheer madness.

But it had happened and now John was dying to know why. What had pushed him? Was it really just because he wanted to get back to the room as soon as possible, while Paul was waiting for the rain to end? Just this? Or had he wanted it because he had been shaken by the impelling need of Paul’s warmth, the need to touch him?

When John came out of the bathroom, refreshed in his body but not as well in his soul, he found himself facing the vision of Paul lying on the bed: long bare legs stretched out, knees slightly raised, his back leaning against the wall behind him, his head reclined and a fag abandoned between his lips. Apparently, he was sleeping.

And all that John could think of was how much he wanted to approach and touch him, anyway, anywhere.

So he came closer and looked at him better, noticing that the cigarette was lit.

_Paul, you twat!_

John chuckled, then took Paul's cigarette and though it was almost completely consumed by now, he brought it to his lips.

"That would be mine." Paul murmured, keeping his eyes closed.

"You were sleeping." John replied, snorting, "And one shouldn’t fall asleep with a lit fag in their mouth."

"I wasn’t sleeping." Paul replied, finally opening his eyes.

"Yes, you were. Plus, you were also wasting one of my precious cigarettes." John commented, looking more closely at the small white stick between his fingers.

"Well, mine got wet, thanks to today and to the fact that you didn’t want to buy a bloody umbrella."

“Fuck you and your bloody umbrella.” John laughed and crouched next to the bed, then resting his elbows on the mattress and looking at him amused, "Besides, it's your fault, Paul, you should keep the package in the inside pocket of the jacket."

"But it's uncomfortable."

"Life is uncomfortable, Paul." He said nonchalantly, as he put out his cigarette in the ashtray.

Paul looked at him for a second, before bursting out laughing uncontrollably.

"There's nothing to laugh about, Paul, it's an inviolable truth."

"It's about how you said that. _Life is uncomfortable, Paul_." Paul repeated mocking him, and sat in front of John, his legs crossed, "You looked like the main character of one of those very boring noir films."

John curled his lips, looking at him puzzled: "Since when do you watch noir films?"

"Oh, John, there are still so many things you don’t know about me." he exclaimed, laughing mischievously.

“Care to share?”

“One day, maybe. If you’re a good boy.”

Then he took the towel John had around his neck and placed it on his head, rubbing it a little.

"You have to dry your hair properly after you take a shower, John, otherwise you can get sick. Doesn’t Mimi tell you these things?"

"I'm sure she does, but have I ever listened to what others tell me to do?"

"Maybe not the others, but you listen to me." Paul said, with a smile, "Always."

John didn’t know what made him spring, whether Paul's deep voice, or his cute smile or maybe his words, realizing that in all his life, John had always and only followed Paul's words, even when they didn’t agree with his own thoughts, even when following them was hard for him. He followed him because Paul was right, he was always right.

Perhaps because of all this, he leaned forward and kissed him, grasping his face gently with one hand. And then for some other reason, he pushed him backwards onto the bed, lying on top of him. Paul didn’t seem to resist and let him, while he dropped John's towel to the floor and he wrapped his hands around his neck.

John realized he had never kissed him like that, so much that he seemed to want all of Paul, not just his lips. His mouth knew better than him and moved on Paul's cheek, then behind his ear and slid slowly, but firmly on his neck, giving it all his attention. And when Paul let out a sigh, a very faint one, yes, but not enough to escape John's hearing, he moved only a little above him, making his legs intertwine with Paul’s and their hips touch.

"John..."

He heard another sigh from Paul, a little louder, and felt his hands caressing his back; they were trembling, perhaps with fear or perhaps with some other reason, one that concerned John who just couldn’t stop himself. But whatever the reason was, John adored everything: he loved those hands that played a guitar with confidence and perfection and  that now longed to intertwine with John's, he loved them now that they were on him, so frightened, but also unable to stop touching him and tightening his shirt.

The cold of that day was suddenly gone, now all that John could feel was warmth, the warmth of the boy under him, which drove him crazy wishing to try and have more. More, more, _more_. And for this reason he couldn’t stop his daring right hand that crept under Paul's shirt, brushing his smooth, refreshed skin after the shower.

Paul looked again for his mouth, pulling him to himself with one hand in his hair, and John could feel the other’s breath slightly ragged, follow his own rhythm, while his hand stroked Paul’s chest, which arched towards him, offered to John, as everything Paul was offering to him. And then…

And then Paul moaned, a slight moan brushing against John's mouth and the older lifted his head just for a moment to look at him and he understood.

_God._

He understood he wanted him. As he had never wanted anything else in his life. More than his first guitar, more than Cynthia, more than anything that made sense in his life.

But the deeper his desire was, the more fearful he was feeling about wanting Paul.

And it had nothing to do with Paul because... _Fuck_! He didn’t seem particularly bothered by what was happening in those too few minutes.

It concerned only John, John and his fear of ruining everything.

"Better... better go to sleep now, Paul." John said, breathless, rolling on his side of the bed.

Paul, still red and breathless, watched him slip under the covers: he didn’t seem particularly confused by John's sudden change. In a way it was as if he expected it and got it.

"Yeah, right, tiring day."

Paul giggled faintly as he copied John and joined him under the covers. John followed his movements and finally smiled at him when Paul said goodnight before closing his eyes and trying to sleep.

John was tired, but not because of the day or because he was sleepy. He was tired to hold back, not only in public but also in private with Paul now. He knew he wouldn’t want to stop, that if he could he would still be there, right now, on top of Paul, kissing him and holding him and taking off his clothes, because he wanted everything of him. And he wanted Paul to have everything of John.

Yes, that was the last piece of that puzzle named Lennon/McCartney. John felt that it was an important piece, the one that would allow him to fully understand Paul. After this step, the exploration of their relationship would be complete. There wouldn’t have been two other people in the world, getting to know each other, understanding each other, esteeming each other, loving each other so deeply.

John just had to find the strength to take that little step with Paul and to fix the final piece missing in his own life in the right place.

"Goodnight, Paul.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hey, yes, things are getting hotter in Paris. :D  
> So, I don't have much to say about this chapter, except for... it has been lovely to write.   
> A huge thank you to all the readers and for all the comments. :3  
> Also thank you to Valentina, my Italian beta reader, to sherlocked221, my English beta reader, and to whydontwedoitontheinternet for her support. <3  
> Next one will be "No nights by myself". Will John and Paul, but mostly John, finally accept their love?   
> Byeeeeee.   
> Chiara


	15. No nights by myself

When John awoke he immediately realized that it wasn’t morning, perhaps it was still night. He found himself with his nose buried in a mass of dark hair and his arm wrapped around the young boy's waist, who was close to him.

He blinked to focus on the situation, hoping he wasn’t really hugging Paul. He hoped he hadn’t looked for him in his sleep for the umpteenth night. He wished he hadn’t felt so happy about his awakening with Paul’s warmth and his smell wrapping him gently.

 But all this was true and it had happened and now, with his still half sleepy mind, all that John wanted was hold him tighter, kiss him behind the ear and on the neck and slide his hand on his side, up to Paul’s thigh, to grasp it and bring him even closer.

Soon, however, John realized that he couldn’t behave this way with Paul and although he still wanted to enjoy that warmth, he forced himself to turn away, turning on his back.

Only a couple of days had passed since, after that crazy rush under the downpour, he had realized he wanted Paul and do things to him... _holy shit!_ , things that made him blush and become clumsy every time he looked into his eyes, things that he normally would have done without many problems, without many _buts, ifs, whys_.

It was Paul's fault of course. The day before, John had surprised him to look sadly at the Seine, which flew ahead. John had moved away briefly to buy something to eat and when he returned, he had found him in that state. And damn, every time it was like he could drown in those eyes. He could even dive into that stupid Parisian river, but the result wouldn’t have been the same: a sweet, slow death, which struck him from his heart, stirred him, then squeezed, crushed him until there was nothing left of him. And John knew that only Paul could save him, only him, with his smile’swarmth, the strong touch of his hand, the sweetness of his kisses... yeah, his kisses. John had wanted to kiss him so desperately in that moment, and he made a huge effort to not let himself go there, in front of everyone, as all the happy couples normally do.

It wasn’t right, but that was how things were going in the world nowadays.

And if he touched him, he wouldn’t be able to hold back. For this reason he had decided that being so close to Paul, to touch him was absolutely something to avoid. At least, if he wanted to keep some control on himself (and John wanted it badly). He knew for sure, even if he hadn’t really felt it on his skin yet, that Paul would have sent him into raptures, he would have made him lose any resistances, he would have fucked his brain and John would have loved it so much.

However, he was afraid, afraid of losing so much control that not even Paul, the patient Paul would known how to endure him. Paul would regret everything that had happened on that trip if John crossed the line.

So until the end of their trip, John promised himself not to touch him anymore. It would have been difficult, not hugging him, not kissing him, not to mention the fact that Paul would notice, he would ask him questions and John wouldn’t known how to answer. _"You drive me crazy"_ wasn’t certainly an excuse, at least an acceptable one. However, it was necessary to behave this way, to protect Paul and themselves, and John had to resist only another day.

Just another day and then they'd be back to Liverpool, at home, to... to how things were before, before all this, before the trip, before _them_?

But had there been a “before”? Or had they always been like that, except that they had never noticed it or didn’t want to notice it? In that case, things couldn’t have come back as before, because there wasn’t a “before”.

This explained so many aspects of their relationship, the way John constantly looked for Paul's eyes, his support, the happiness John felt when he saw Paul by accident, the euphoria at the idea of spending time with him, hoping that moment would never end...

So many things passed one by one in John's mind during those hours that separated him from the new day. They passed quickly, even though he hated not being able to close his eyes and rest. But on the other hand, he loved to stay in that position to look at Paul's back, his hair on the pillow, the way his breath made his chest raise and lower.

He was so absorbed in his reflections that he didn’t notice the sun's rays peeping through the window shutters, announcing the arrival of what would have been a splendid morning, and only a movement beside him succeeded in rousing him. John tried to move away, as much as he could, those thoughts about Paul,while the young lad turned and gave him a good morning with a smile.

"Good morning." John answered and the word almost died in his throat.

Shit, he hadn’t done a good job in getting rid of his thoughts, because now he didn’t want to do anything more but grasping his face with no grace and kissing Paul to give him a good morning worthy of its name. And then, maybe, he could push him to lie on his back and find himself a way between Paul’s legs to get rid of his shirt so he can caress his chest and then-

NO! Fuck, no! He couldn’t.

He couldn’t think of those things while he was in bed, while he was in bed with Paul, while Paul looked at him like that, as if he were the most beautiful thing that had happened to him in all his life.

"Today is the last day, isn’t it?" Paul asked, on his face a shadow of sadness was slowly making its way.

"Yup."

God, he couldn’t bear to see him so dejected. He would do anything to wipe out that unpleasant feeling that was overwhelming him, not just Paul, but John too, because yes, despite everything John didn’t want to leave Paris, if he could, he would stay there with Paul all his life.

"Have you already thought about what to visit today?" Paul asked and John blinked in disbelief, realizing that he had dangerously approached him.

How come he didn’t notice? How didn’t he feel the mattress moving just below him or Paul's hand resting on his chest or still, his breath caressing his face?

Paul was becoming a constant distraction for John and this wasn’t good.

"Yes, and about that..." he started to say, moving away from Paul and jumping up, "We have to hurry up to make the most of this last day, don’t you think?"

He had to put more space between him and Paul and take a shower, possibly cold, frozen, to wake up and soothe his hot spirit that was dangerous in and of itself.

Paul watched as John slipped through his hands, and his expression slightly frowned.

"Yeah, all right, John." He murmured.

"Perfect. But I’ll go and have a shower first this time, eh?"

****

Naturally Paul understood. He had sensed that John had some trouble and knew for sure that this problem had something to do with himself. It was easy to get it, and John didn’t even make the effort to hide it, because he knew that Paul would understand anyway and it would be useless to pretend he was all right.

Paul only had to find out what was bothering him. Under normal circumstances he would have stayed calm, to better cope with the situation. But that was the last day before their return to Liverpool, he only had twenty-four hours to understand and fix things with John, because when he got home, he couldn’t do it properly, looking into John's eyes for all the time he wanted, looking for clues in the smallest detail of his face, his posture, squeezing his hand and gently asking him, "What's wrong?"

Doing things in a hurry wouldn’t help him, Paul hated being in a hurry. But he would have done it. He had to do it at any cost.

The day was clear, the sun was pleasant and warmed the air softly. After a week of endless walks and decidedly upsetting emotions, they were both quite tired, so John proposed to take something to eat and go to one of the many parks in Paris to bask in the sun. Paul agreed, well aware that his legs wouldn’t last long, and together they reached the Parc Monceau, the closest to the Montmartre hill.

It was certainly one of the most beautiful parks they had seen in Paris. The sun’s rays kissed the green lawn, the roses’ bright colors stood out from the neat flowerbeds, the blue of the sky reflected itself in the water of the small artificial stream that ran through the park.

Entering further and further into that perfectly groomed nature, John and Paul found themselves facing a pool, surrounded by an imposing semicircular colonnade, and for a moment Paul forgot all his problems. He approached the picturesque landscape, leaning a little from the railing that separated him from the pool: he was immediately catapulted into the middle of a Greek myth, one of those he studied at school, with the dancing water lilies, the satyrs and the fauns that played their celestial music with little instruments, and gods and men and their tormented stories. Paul shook his head vigorously: he wasn’t in Ancient Greece, he was in Paris, in 1961, with his best mate’s company, his... the one who represented the best part of himself, the one who now was avoiding him on purpose.

John approached him, making sure to keep a distance from Paul, and only gave him the hint of a smile, before get back to his walk in the park. Paul followed him, keeping his gaze fixed on him and the space that separated him from John. And that was the moment he got it.

He understood that John's problem had to do with being too close to Paul. It seemed that John didn’t want to touch him anymore. It was fine to be near him, but at least an inch away from him. But for Paul, whatever the distance was, it would always be too much. Especially now, now that he knew he wanted to be near him, so fucking close. Close as no other lad could.

Everything made sense now, even John's behaviour of last night. Paul was awake, he was awake when John found himself hugging him and then he suddenly pulled away, and how John hadn’t slept anymore. But unlike the older boy, Paul stayed still for those few moments, his eyes closed, all intent on enjoying the warmth of that body curled against his, which suited him so perfectly; and then the heat was gone and all that Paul could feel was cold, a sudden wave of cold that made him shiver. Now that cold was returning back to take possession of him, despite the golden rays that propagated their heat in the scented air of the park; it was the cold of loneliness, the same of all the nights spent alone, as if John had never been on that bed with him.

They found a small space for them in the middle of a green expanse: they weren’t the only ones who had the idea of a quick picnic at the park. But unlike the other visitors, John and Paul had only two sandwiches and two beers with them. No white and red checked tablecloth, no pic-nic basket, no glasses, no napkins, none of those things that were just "useless junk" for John.

Paul watched him lay languidly on the grass, stretching and letting his body be regenerated and warmed by the sun. He wanted to see, now that he knew, he wanted to see the effect he had on John if he touched him, he wanted to see the reaction directly in his eyes.

So when hunger began to be heavy, Paul took a sandwich from their bag and reached out to grab John's hand and put the sandwich in his palm.

"Here."

John, in response, opened his eyes and seemed to stiffen suddenly, as if his body hadn’t benefited from the last half hour’s rest on that lawn. Almost instinctively he withdrew his hand with the result that the sandwich fell into the grass.

Paul looked at John with a not particularly surprised expression, yet inside himself he was shocked at how serious his problem was. John couldn’t even touch him, in any fucking way. Otherwise he reacted like that, in an absolutely embarrassed, awkward and senseless way.

John noticed the upset in his eyes and his heart ached. It wasn’t fair, acting like that without Paul really knowing what the reason was, but John didn’t quite know how to tell him. So he tried to save the situation as much as he could.

"Sorry, I got a shock."

Paul nodded vaguely and dedicated himself to his sandwich. Not that he was particularly hungry, but at least it offered him something to distract from John and his questions about why the boy was behaving like that: did Paul do or say anything wrong? What happened that caused such behaviour from John?

John, on the other hand, seemed to feel the opposite. No sandwich was at the moment more interesting than Paul, who avoided his gaze and ate absently and unwillingly. John would like to get close, hug him and reassure him that he had done nothing wrong. It was obvious to John that Paul was tormenting himself for his sudden change of mood, thinking it was his fault. Paul was an eternal optimism by nature, but sometimes this also included pessimistic extremes, much more than John. And this was the case. John would like to do something, but found himself unable to move and touch his hand. If he touched him now he wouldn’t resist, he wouldn’t let him go anymore and he couldn’t afford it.

However, maybe there was a way to get to him, without physically touching him.

"What about a song?" He asked suddenly, leaving the sandwich on the ground.

Paul looked up and stared at him with a surprised expression.

"Huh?"

John chuckled in front of his incredulous tone, then slipped a hand into the inside pocket of his jacket, extracting his harmonica: it was much more comfortable to carry than a guitar, it was much less cumbersome and made some music anyway.

"You heard me. What about if I sing a song to you?"

"Here? In front of everyone?" Paul asked, looking around perplexed.

The park wasn’t very crowded that day, but there were still a few people, lying in the sun, still intent on eating.

"Yeah, they won’t even understand the lyrics."

"But John-"

Too late, John had already brought the harmonica to his mouth and started playing. The melody was typically blues, sad, melancholy, and Paul recognized it before John began to sing.

_"I'm not going to spend another night by myself."_

People sitting a little further turned towards him: they seemed to be listening and appreciating John playing the harmonica and singing.

_"If I don’t find my baby, I'll have to carry somebody else."_

But he didn’t pay much attention to it. He was too busy looking at Paul's face and his reaction, his smile slowly spreading on his lips and happiness coming back to bright his eyes.

_"I set up all last night, haven’t slept a wink today."_

Paul was appreciating his idea and John couldn’t be more pleased. It was the only way he could get to him now, through his music: the melody created by John, from his hands, from his mouth reached Paul and touched him, caressed him, as if John was the one really doing it, with the difference that his music could reach Paul, his heart to soothe his doubts, his fears, everything that was stupidly connected and caused by John.

_"Lord, I'm not going to spend any night by myself."_

The melody faded into the air, the last notes faded delicately, mingling with the light chatter of people in the park. Paul smiled at him and lay down on the grass and John imitated him, lying on his side so he could look at him.

"So? Did you like it?" He asked anxiously.

"Of course, how can’t I like good old Sonny Boy?"

John pouted: "But _I_ played it and sang it. _For you_!"

Paul chuckled, then gave him a cheeky and caring look.

"That's why I loved it."

And it was true. He loved it because it was John who played for him, because he had once again noticed his sadness and tried to wipe it away however he could. And even if his caress or kiss would have been more effective and would have solved everything, Paul had felt decidedly cheered up, he had felt himself gently touched, in the depths of his being.

And this was fine for now. It was John's way of saying that he knew that Paul understood and at the same time that he didn’t need to worry, because everything would be solved sooner or later, as always, like everything that concerned him and Paul.

The rest of the day was pleasant. They had dinner and when they began to feel tired, they returned to the small hotel. By now they weren’t ready to say goodbye to Paris yet. After all, there was still some time left and there was no need to rush to say hello.

When they were back to the hotel, John lingered with the owner to settle the bill, so the next day he wouldn’t have to worry about that, while Paul decided to go and wait for him in the room. He took off his jacket, throwing it on the armchair and sat down on the bed, carefully looking around the room that had welcomed them, the room that had seen the best part of the two of them, the one that would have been empty from the next day, empty as Paul was now.

In spite of all the feelings that were always in him, there was a feeling that was still missing, feeling John as close as possible to him and it hurt now, to know that John didn’t want to touch him. As much as his song had encouraged him, Paul still found it wrong. It was wrong not to take advantage of that moment, of that available last night and he couldn’t force John to do something that would make him feel uncomfortable.

He sighed, as he approached the small window of their room, to enjoy for the last time the night-time view of Paris and perhaps, to seek advice from the city that was their matchmaker.

****

John climbed the stairs, muttering nervously to himself. The old owner of the hotel had asked him a little more because a few days before he and Paul had flooded the hall, causing the carpet to come off the floor. John would have liked to tell her that it wasn’t his fucking fault if she turned to incompetent people to cover that floor, but he didn’t know how to say it in French, so he simply had to accept the matter and drop more cash. Fortunately, there was still money left to take the train and save them the trouble of hitchhiking. It had been fun in the first leg, when they were all excited about the trip and above all, well rested. But now it would have been suicide, since they were dead tired.

When John came back into the room, he noticed that Paul was looking out of the window, leaning forward, arms resting on the window sill. Intrigued by his position, John approached, taking great care to keep a certain distance from Paul.

"What are you doing?"

"Watching an interesting show." Paul answered, smiling.

"What?"

Paul chuckled and pointed to a spot on the sidewalk in front of their hotel: "Two lovebirds are fighting."

John followed the sign and saw a boy and girl involved in a lively discussion, strictly in French, which made the whole scene more melodramatic. She was screaming at him, then tried to get away, but he chased her and stopped her, probably begging her to stay.

"In my opinion, he forgot their anniversary." Paul said, amused.

"Are you kidding? Look at them, it's clear that he betrayed her, she just found out and now she does the fusspot."John exclaimed," Typical."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Well, do you see how she raises her very French nose? She must act like a snob to make him understand that he made a huge mistake, so now he will do everything not to lose her." John explained, "But in the end she will give up, because he would chase her all over Paris just to be forgiven."

Paul laughed and put a hand over his mouth to avoid drawing the attention of the two lovebirds, who were still caught in their bickering.

If those French could fight!

Finally the guy stopped her for the umpteenth time and she gave him a great slap that echoed in the street.

"That was a slap!" John said enthusiastically.

He leaned a little longer and his shoulder brushed against Paul's, but he didn’t seem to notice. Then the girl gave in to her boyfriend's forgiveness prayers and kissed him right there, on the street, with passers-by simply looking at them quickly. The kiss soon became passionate, _very_ passionate, which made John snort openly.

"Now I understand why they call it a _French kiss_." he exclaimed, chuckling to himself.

But the laughter soon died in the throat, when John finally realized that his shoulder was touching Paul's and immediately withdrew, with great dismay of the younger lad.

Paul sighed and withdrew, moving away from the window, moving away from John. The latter followed him with his eyes and couldn’t help but bite his lip, while he was mentally cursing and called himself an idiot. It wasn’t anything new. Why did he continue to be surprised when he was doing something stupid?

"See? I told you she would give in at last." he said, trying to keep the atmosphere light.

"John, what’s the matter with you?"

Paul's interest in the young couple on the street, however, had suddenly disappeared.

"Nothing." John replied, but he felt his gaze, his voice, all of him was trembling under Paul's eyes.

A look that now became more acute and suffering, like Paul’s voice which scolded him with determination: " _John_!"

"Paul, it's nothing."

"No, it’s not true. That's why you can’t stay close to me anymore and I can’t fucking stand it."

"What? No!" John protested, approaching him almost without noticing,"I can stay close to you. See?"

"Not as I would like you to." he murmured blushing violently.

"And how would you like?"

Paul looked down for a moment, before grasping John's hand with determination and at that touch John's body reacted, lighting up in an instant.

"As if..." he began, as he let their hands intertwine, "As if I wanted to make love with you."

John's heart missed a beat and he began to feel a strange sensation in the pit of his stomach, a feeling of lightness, delicate and disturbing excitement.

"Paul..."

"I want to make love with you, John."

"Paul, we don’t- we… can’t-"

But Paul didn’t really seem to want to let him talk.

"This is my being cheesy for you. Do you remember a few days ago on the Arc de Triomphe? I assured you that I would find something very cheesy for you too. Well, I want to feel like that, John, like no other guy has ever done before, I want to show you what I feel because it's so huge that words wouldn’t be enough and I need this." Paul told him, his voice strangled, almost a whisper stroking John's face, "Is it cheesy enough?"

John smiled to himself and shook his head gently, "You're a jerk, it's not cheesy at all."

"So?"

"Paul, we can’t, I mean, we-"

"Why? And don’t say because we're two guys."

"Because we..." he began, desperately looking for an excuse in his long list, but he realized that this had been canceled the moment Paul had taken him by the hand, "Because I..."

Paul shook his head to himself, as if he no longer wanted any stupid excuse from John; he just grabbed his face and kissed him passionately and John, instinctively, clung to his hips.

It was this that John wanted to avoid, thinking about how perfect Paul was with his mouth on his own and his body close to John’s, held in a way that John never wanted to let him go again. It was this, John wouldn’t stand having him so close and then, one day, losing him and being forced to get away from him and be alone.

"Paul..."

The young man pulled away slightly, smiling, and leaned his forehead against John's.

"I know you want me, John, as much as I want you."

"You have no idea." John sighed, his eyes still closed and his hands firmly on Paul's hips.

"See? You have no reason to reject me."

"Paul?" John exclaimed, looking at him and feeling all his defenses collapse one after the other, like a house of cards destroyed by the slightest gust.

"John?" Paul replied, sliding his arms around John’s neck.

"Paul, are you sure?" John asked hesitantly, "Because, you know, once you try John Lennon, you won’t be able to get rid of him any soon."

"Oh, is it a threat?" He asked, amused, biting his lip.

"It's what you prefer. A threat... or a promise."

"Mm, promise..." Paul murmured on John's cheek, "I like promises."

And when Paul took his lips back, John understood why he was so afraid of touching Paul: because once back to Liverpool, John would miss him, since he wouldn’t sleep with him every night. By now he was so used to waking up by his side every morning, to fall asleep with his scent under his nose, that the only idea of spending the night alone was terrible and made him mad, crazy like Paul, who now was busy getting rid of John's jacket and tossing it on the ground.

"God, Paul..." John sighed, while Paul led him slowly and at the same time, urgently to the bed, "You drive me crazy."

"Do not go crazy for me, John." He said, letting him lie down gently on the mattress that many times had seen them fall asleep together.

John let himself guided by Paul, let him take control of the situation, because his determined eyes whispered that it would be all right, that he wouldn’t be alone, neither this night, nor the future ones, nor never ever.

"Go crazy with me."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay. Really really, I had the chapter ready to post it on Tuesday, but I had a lot of things to do.   
> Anyway, here we are finally. Just one chapter left to the end. :3  
> Nothing more to say about the chapter, I only hope you like it. Finally these two crossed the line. :D  
> I'd like to say thank you to everyone who read and left a comment. Besides a huge thank you to my English betareader, sherlocked221, to my Italian betareader Vale, and to my dear friend, whydontwedoitontheinternet!  
> Next one, the last one, will be Together!  
> Bye  
> Chiara


	16. Together

The morning after, John's awakening wasn’t very different from the day before, yet his feeling was slightly different. A feeling that seemed a lot like when he had an euphoric buzz, one of those that make you feel omnipotent and happier than ever, but that at the same time had the advantage of let you understand the basic notions and especially the unpleasant effects of the hangover. So, he was euphoric, but well aware of what happened and continued to happen.

For example, John understood that he had no desire to open his eyes. He murmured absently, as he pushed his conscience away for it was trying in any way to wake him when he wasn’t ready to face a new day yet. Was it so hard for it to understand that John just wanted to stay there, eyes closed, in the bed’s warmth?

In Paul’s warmth.

_Paul_.

Paul was the other thing John understood. Paul was the reason the awakening of that morning had been different. With his eyes closed and snuggled against him, John could still see and relive the myriad of emotions felt last night. John clung to him unknowingly and when the light that illuminated the room became too strong, so that John could see it reverberate on his eyelids, the lad finally decided to open his eyes.

His heart suddenly jumped in his throat: the vision was the same as the previous day, but much more exciting for the memories it aroused.

The dark locks of Paul's hair tickling his nose were ruffled and scattered on the pillow, standing out in a perfect contrast with the white of the pillowcase. He liked that Paul's hair was so dark, at least it had a very specific color, unlike his own whose colour wasn’t clear, as if it reflected John. John, who was a single uncertainty. Paul no, Paul was his complete opposite, Paul was determination.

It was something that John had never noticed before, how much he liked his hair, not even the night before, when he reversed their positions and Paul was beneath him, laughing, with his head on his pillow, or when John hid the face in the lad’s neck and his hand closed in Paul's hair, flicking it even more.

At those memories John sighed, touching the boy's shoulder with his lips and then sliding down his neck, leaving a trail of kisses on his path. His hand caressed Paul's bare chest, spreading out just above his heart and drawing him to himself. Paul murmured an indistinct and deep verse and John smiled evilly because he wanted to wake Paul up, he wanted to be the cause of his awakening, of his sweet, exciting awakening. John's mouth gave all its attention to the young man's neck and his nose brushed the part behind his ear, deeply inspiring his scent, which was an intoxicating fragrance, the smell of Paul combined with John's. Perfect fragrance. John lingered in his task until Paul moved, a clear sign that he was waking up once and for all.

The boy stretched a bit, trying not to dissolve John’s embrace; instead he even more consolidated it, bringing a hand on John’sarm and grabbing it to prevent it from moving.

Now that Paul was finally awake, John didn’t know what to say or do. What can you say to your best mate after spending a night like that with him? He couldn’t simply behave as if nothing happened. He didn’t want it at all, in fact, he wanted to talk about it, he wanted to talk to Paul about it forever. And the truth was that there were so many things to tell him that John was simply silent, giving Paul the first move.

"Hello, John."

Here it is. This could have been a good start, and John smiled to himself thinking that even the simplest, and most banal word seemed so special with Paul’s voice.

Like John’s name. _John_ had never been as beautiful and important as when it had been on Paul's mouth that night, whispered at each caress, joined to his moans when John had pushed in him, and finally painted with the tones of ecstasy in the moment of extreme pleasure.

"Hello, Paul." he said, bringing his lips close to his ear.

His breath caressed the sensitive skin of his face, coming to brush his neck where it caused a shiver that ran across Paul’s back: it was pressed against John's chest, a strong and wide back that had arched with sinuous movements when John had taken him, when Paul had lifted and surrounded him with his legs, the same that were now intertwined with John’s.

John felt the shiver perfectly, it also involved his body and was further fueled by those images that just didn’t intend to leave him alone. Not that he was sorry about that, after all, John knew he had stepped into something from which he could no longer nor wanted to go back.

"How do you feel?" He asked then, deciding it was a good question to ask in such a situation.

Paul chuckled, before turning to John and answering, "My arse hurts."

"Really?" He said, laughing with Paul, "It seems to me you're just fine."

It looked like that: Paul's smile was more than genuine, the colour of his face was slightly flushed, and the beating of his heart was regular and intense, all of which indicated how well he was.

"Well, you can’t get it from outside. _Me_ , I can bear the pain very well and in silence." he exclaimed, giving him a rather eloquent wink.

John frowned, perplexed, "Are you suggesting I can’t?"

"If you deduced it, then it means that there’s a bit of truth. Remember when we arrived in Calais, the brawl at the pub? How long have you complained about an insignificant black eye?"

"That would be your gratitude to me for defending your honor." John snapped, offended.

Paul laughed and laid him on his back, resting his chest on his shoulder: "This isn’t the point. The point is that I bear pain more than you. Try to imagine reversed roles tonight. I dare not think about your complaints."

John wrinkled his lips, thinking about Paul's words. He had been very good, not a single afterthought crossed his mind, not even when on his face appeared a grimace of pain, because all he wanted was to be with John and the rest had no importance. However, John knew he had changed now, wanting to do things that previously couldn’t even touch his most daring thoughts. Thanks to Paul, he knew he could let himself go to new experiences and the most tempting experience now was Paul.

"So why don’t you test me?"

"Now?"

"Yes, why not?" John asked him, grabbing his face with one hand to get close to him and kiss him.

Paul allowed himself to enjoy that kiss for a few moments, before the terrible thought of that day overwhelmed him.

"It's an irresistible temptation, John, but we have to leave now, or maybe you prefer that our old French lady comes up to throw us out and find us in compromising situations?"

John snorted, aware that Paul was right. Yet he didn’t want to let him go, he wanted to spend all day in that bed, with Paul.

"Why don’t we stay here?"

"In bed?" Paul asked, amused.

"In Paris."

Paul sighed, leaning his head on John's chest, letting him gently stroke his back.

"Think about it, why should we go back?” John continued,“We can have what we want here, find a job, live together... learn French!"

Paul's laughter was stifled against the warm skin of John's chest, "Oh yeah, I can’t wait."

"If we really wanted to, it could become true." John continued, and his voice assumed the colours of resignation.

Paul raised his head to look at his disconsolate expression and it was evident that, like Paul, John didn’treally think about staying in Paris. Of course, the idea was tempting but in Liverpool their families were waiting for their return, and John and Paul loved them very much. Plus, the Beatles were waiting for them and everything that would come from the band. The future was still unknown for Paul, but one thing was certain. John would be next to him. They would be together and together they could get far, very fucking far.

So he leaned closer to the boy's face and kissed him softly, waiting for John to kiss him back as a sign that a little melancholy was gone.

"You know, that in Liverpool or in Paris, things won’t change, don’t you? I'll always be that idiot you kissed in the small room of a stupid hotel."

"Can I still kiss you in Liverpool?"

"Only if you really want it."

"I want it, _really_."

Paul smiled at him and his smile made John’s heart beat faster. It was something that John had never tried. John Lennon never blushed for a simple smile, from a lad no less.

So he knew what it was, a noble and overwhelming feeling, something John didn’t think he could ever feel, really, in a way that occupied all his thoughts and accompanied all his words and his gestures.

In that way that John longed to tell Paul, before that trip ended.

"There's another thing I want, you know?" John murmured, running his hands over his shoulders, “Something I want to tell you. Now.”

"Yeah? What is it?" He asked curiously.

"I..." he began, his voice trembled, but he was sure he could do it, especially if he continued to look into the other boy's eyes, "Paul, Ilo-"

"Fuck!" Paul suddenly jumped, getting out of bed and checking the clock on the bedside table, "Have you seen what time is it?"

"But-?"

"It's very late, John! If we don’t hurry up, we’ll never be able to catch the train."

"Paul?" John tried to call him, but Paul seemed to have developed a sudden inability to hear John's voice.

"We still have to get our bags packed." the boy said, picking up his clothes scattered around the room, "And look for some food for the trip. Shit, we'll never make it."

John stood up and tried to stop and calm the agitated Paul, but he suddenly disappeared into the bathroom, leaving John alone in the room.

What happened? Why did Paul run away like that?

John really couldn’t understand. He was ready to say the most important words of his life, despite the fear that Paul might react badly. Well… maybe not really bad, but certainly he didn’t expect him to jump with his arms around his neck, yelling that he totally felt the same thing for John.

But no, Paul had even prevented him from speaking for some reason, and now John was standing there, his heart in his hand, red and hot and throbbing.

But John wouldn’t give up. He fucking wouldn’t. The day when John would throw the towel in front of something that was harder than expected, had still to come.

***

Eventually they managed to catch the train in time.

The journey back to Calais was faster than the outward voyage. Surely it was due to the fact that they caught a train, rather than relying on the not always reliable hitchhiking. But John felt that somehow the cruel time decided to run faster that day. His tired limbs were grateful, but his heart thumped restlessly, suggesting that leaving Paris was the most stupid thing he was doing. He missed it already.

Leaving Paris wasn’t easy. John had to admit that the city had hit him straight in the heart. It was exactly where he would like to live one day, every street in that city whispered words of art and love, the two essences that formed John's soul.

Of course, Paul had greatly contributed to making him fall in love with Paris. From now on, every place of Paris would remind John of a specific moment of that journey with Paul. Paul, who now was sleeping quietly with his head on his shoulder. They were on the train to Calais, where they would take the ferry back to their homeland, hoping that Paul wouldn’t feel as bad as the first trip. It was one of the reasons John advised Paul to have some sleep. With a more rested body, he would have dealt better with the most difficult part of the journey. Then from Dover they would take another train to Liverpool, spending John’s last pounds.

Paul's breath touched his neck, making him shiver and bringing him immediately back to that morning, in the bed with the lad.

John had gathered all the courage he had to convince himself to say those few simple words to Paul. However he didn’t want to hear them. John was sure that Paul got it anyway, what he was going to say. It was obvious, you could read it on his face. Paul had always been an open book for him, and now he was even more. Paul must have seen that feeling on John's face and prevented him from turning it into words and then, into something much more concrete, into vibrations of the air that would have caressed him and made him shiver.

But John didn’t get why he didn’t want to hear them. It wasn’t as if he was going to say "I hate you, I fucking hate you, go fuck yourself!". No, shit! He was about to give him the hardest words John had ever addressed to a living soul. And Paul, instead, slammed the door in his face.

But John had to tell him, before they got to Liverpool, he had to let him know that what happened was something very dear to him, that John would do anything to make this new understanding work, this sweet and intense exchange of feelings.

Leaning his head on the window, John sighed and let his gaze wander into the French countryside. The day was beautiful and who knows, maybe they could have even crossed the English Channel on the ship deck, with the fresh ocean air ruffling their hair.

When they got on the ferry, Paul seemed well, John noticed it with pleasure. They decided to look out over the bow railing, to enjoy the view before the sun set and they could see nothing but darkness. Behind them, France, that magical land that John didn’t think could be so special, or that could bring him even closer to Paul. In front of him, England, his home, where it all started with Paul. And at his side, him, Paul.

Paul whom John was never tired of looking at, Paul who at every glance caused a little gasp to John’s heart. How could John be so taken by him, how couldn’the be able to look away from something that wasn’t Paul himself? It wasn’t quite as if John had never seen him well. John knew everything about Paul: his round cheeks, the rightly shaped nose, the perfect arch of his eyebrows, his big mischievous and sweet eyes, the way a few days' beard decorated the outline of his soft lips... everything was so familiar to John, and yet now, at every glance it was as if John saw him for the first time.

God, Paul fired up so many feelings in him that John really couldn’t give another name to this incredible mixture. That name with L, that name everyone is obsessively searching for and only a few are so lucky to find. And John, John the lucky one, had found it.

"Paul?"

The lad turned to him, looking at him with a quiet smile on his face, "Mh?"

"I have to tell you something."

Paul's expression changed drastically, turning immediately in something as affectionate as suffering. Of course, he knew what John meant. He knew it since that morning. He had felt it when he saw John's eyes shine in his, and God only knew how much Paul had always wanted to hear Johnsaying those words to him. However, somehow Paul was aware that it wasn’t right. That wasn’t how things had to go.

"John, I know what you mean, but please don’t do it." He said, leaving him open-mouthed.

"Why?" He asked, perplexed, with a hint of disappointment that writhed his features.

"Because you can’t say it now, here, as if all that happened just because of Paris or this journey." he explained, bowing his head,"As if the real John didn’t think so.”

"It's not because of this." John protested briskly, raising his head once again, after grabbing his chin, "You know it's not like that."

"Then tell me when we're in Liverpool, tell me in a place dear to us, where we'll both belong forever. Otherwise it’ll be as if you wanted to leave it behind you, out of our life."

John looked at him, unable to hide his disappointment, and yet he could understand Paul's objection and found himself sharing it. It was true, after all, this feeling wasn’t so new and wasn’t certainly born in Paris, it didn’t belong to that journey. It belonged to them and they belonged to that rather nauseating town, a bit run-down and definitely not as charming as Paris, but it was always home.

“All right then.”

Paul smiled gratefully, before turning back to look at the horizon in front of them again.

"But..." John continued, approaching him, so that he could whisper in his ear, "When I say it, what will you answer?"

Paul chuckled and despite the cold, John swore that he was also slightly blushing.

"Same thing, of course."

John felt his heart startle in his chest. He had thought that perhaps it might scare Paul, make him insecure, maybe he would think that confessing it with words was too much for them.

Now, however, he discovered that it wasn’t so and Paul shared those words and feelings, he felt them as much as John, and as him, he was ready to give them to him. In the right place, though.

John smiled, before the next thought made him laugh softly.

"What?" Paul asked, turning to look at him curiously.

"Sorry, but isn’t it like we've already said that?"

Paul joined him, but soon the laughter subsided and the young man took a long look at John’s eyes.

"Actually, we only figured it out, John. Hearing it is different. It's always different." He explained seriously, before grabbing his hand and squeezing it tightly, "Promise me you'll tell me anyway."

"Aye." John said, gently reassuring him and making their fingers intertwined, despite the fear that someone could see them, "Of course I'll tell you."

Paul nodded, more to himself than to John, cheered up by his grip and the involvement of his voice. Then, reluctantly, he let go of his hand and crossed his arms on the railing, lowering himself to rest his chin on them.

"So, what do you say?" He asked with a sigh, "Are we ready to return to our life as always?"

John looked at him, thinking deeply about the question. No, he wasn’t fucking ready. He wasn’t fucking ready for anything they could find. After all, there were still so many questions to answer to, questions that were approaching inexorably, as they were approaching the white cliffs of Dover.

Questions involving all the people close to them, their families, their birds, their friends, their band...

No, John didn’tknow what he would expect, once he got home. He knew only a few things.

He knew it would be something great.

He knew he would live it with Paul.

And at that thought, a sweet smile spread on his lips and John couldn’t help but stretch out his hand to affectionately ruffle Paul's hair.

"No, but I'm ready for a new life with the Beatles and with you."

It was the end of a journey, but even more important, it was the beginning of a new great adventure.

_Together_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, we're at the end of this long fic.   
> I really hope you like this last chapter, as the whole story.   
> This was the beginning of a longer project which had to concern John and Paul's lives from the start to this day, after John's death. But I realized that it was too much to do and it could be risky and become boring.   
> So I decided to focus only on this part of their story, which is one of my favourite.  
> Anyway I want to thank all of you for your support; sherlocked221, my English beta reader, she is sooo kind! Then Vale, my friend and my Italian beta reader, who does a lot for me. Last but not least, I want to thank whydontwedoitontheinternet, lovely friend, great artist, I have no words to describe how much I love her works, specially the ones about Ticket to Paris. <3  
> I'll come back soon with other translations. I'd like to start the translation of a long fic with thief!John and inspector!Paul. It has 30 chapters (with a sequel of 15 chapters, ops!) soooo it'll be a looong work.   
> Oh and I'll start a new show on Mclennonradio very soon, so please, follow us! :D  
> Bye bye!!  
> Chiara

**Author's Note:**

> So, the first chapter is gone. I'm trying to stick to real events, obviously as much as possible. When I was planning this fic, I was reading the Anthology and read that the relatives who sent the famous one hundred pounds to John were from Edinburgh. Half of the chapters will have some flashbacks in italic.  
> I want to thank 3 girls for this chapter: first, [savageandwise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savageandwise/pseuds/Savageandwise) because she was my first English beta reader and corrected this chapter; second, [sherlocked221 ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlocked221/pseuds/sherlocked221) for being my actual English beta reader; and last but not at all the least, [whydonwedoitontheinternet](http://whydontwedoitontheinternet.tumblr.com/) because she will be a great companion for this fic, she made a lot of beautiful drawings about and because of her lovely enthusiasm with which she welcomed my idea. You can see the first [here](http://letitmclennon.tumblr.com/post/169501056390/ticket-to-paris-116).  
> Next chapter is "On the pillow" and it will be posted next Sunday.  
> See you soon. :)


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